The two forces had been at roughly the same altitude when the Misfits had spotted the Barons, but the British machines were able to out climb the Prussians and, when they finally came together, the Misfits had a distinct height advantage, which they put to good use, diving twice on the Prussians, knocking two of the Blutsaugers out of the sky. Two more, undamaged but panicked, dived away, racing for the coast and the thick clouds creeping over the Channel from France.

‘Let them go,’ said Abby gleefully. ‘We need someone to survive and let the rest of the Fleas know what happened to the Barons today anyway.’

Abby might have been pleased with how the fight had been progressing and the odds were suddenly more even, but the Misfits had spent their advantage and were going to have to get their hands dirty in a turn fight, unless they wanted to take their small victory and run. None of them wanted to do that, though, and they all knew that if the result of the battle wasn't decisive then the Prussians would just keep coming back.

‘A flight, we’re going to mix it up, B flight just do what you do best.’

Abby’s orders sent three of the Misfits turning to meet the Barons, while the other three climbed away. On the face of things it seemed like suicide, as the members of A flight now faced the twelve remaining enemy aircraft, but there was at least some wisdom in her decision; the Prussians were unable to fully concentrate their forces on the three incredibly nimble aircraft, both because they got in each other’s way, making it almost impossible to get a clear shot without having to worry about hitting one of their own comrades and also because now they had to keep an eye on B flight, lurking overhead and waiting for any opportunity to pounce.

Gwen, Abby and Monty put the experience they had garnered in months of almost continuous flying to full use, carrying out complex manoeuvres that had become second nature to them and using tricks and tactic that they had practised in fight after fight to confuse and confound their enemies. They never flew a predictable path, never fixed on a single target, instead constantly banked and turned, while taking opportunistic shots - just as they had done so many times before when they had been equally, or more, outnumbered.

In the past couple of months, while the Misfits had been fighting for their lives and their country, the Barons had mostly been putting on displays to raise the morale of the Prussian people and army. They lacked the hard-earned combat instincts of the British pilots and it showed. Abby made short work of two fighters, two red monoplanes that had been lining up for a shot on Gwen and in return Gwen shot down the fighter that had been pursuing Abby. Monty managed to take down another that had swerved out of the way of one of his comrades, straight into his sights and B flight destroyed two more that had been trying to gain some distance from the main fight in order to turn and get a clear shot.

In less than a minute, the odds had gone from impossible to completely even.

The fight didn’t go the Misfits’ way for long, though.

In his tiredness, Monty spent a split second too long savouring his kill and three of the remaining six Barons took the opportunity they were handed and honed in on him. A stream of lead blew the struts from one side of Ballerina, weakening her structure, and the top wing of the biplane all but ripped itself from the aircraft, sending it into an uncontrollable flat spin.

Gruber had been far from idle and, while the rest of his squadron had kept A flight occupied, he had been watching for an opportunity to take B flight down a peg. He had designed and constructed his triplane (emulating the iconic aircraft flown by one of his heroes in the First Great War) specifically for fights like this one and he knew how to best use the incredible firepower and agility that he had in his hands. He also knew his opponents very well and was amused to see that their tactics hadn’t evolved in the two months since the two squadrons had last faced each other in France.

His first chance came when Swift swooped down on a loose Baron - Derek was so concentrated on his target that he didn’t see the triplane turning towards him and metal from Gruber’s twelve machine guns shredded his tail, rendering him incapable not only of destroying the Baron he’d been focussed on, but also of returning to the fight.

The next target was Lady Penelope and he used the same tactic as before, watching as the triangular shape of Cheetah dropped onto one of his comrades, predicting her path easily, then sending lines of fire streaming out in front of her. She flew right through them and never pulled up, her aircraft’s control surfaces completely destroyed and her aircraft falling apart around her.

Gruber grinned, more than satisfied with how the fight was going, and turned his attention to Abby. A quick call to his squadron had them turning to engage the other Misfits, leaving him alone with her - it was time to have some fun.

Abby knew that, with her squadron whittled down, Gruber would be coming for her soon; they had faced off enough times for her to know how his mind worked - he wouldn’t want to risk another pilot getting the glory of shooting her down.

She was eager for the confrontation; the other Barons were faceless pilots, above average and talented, certainly, but nonetheless simply there to provide a squadron for Gruber to lead and terrorise the RAC with - it was the erstwhile movie star who was the linchpin of the Crimson Barons, without him they would simply cease to exist as a threat and it was her duty, one that the King himself had personally given her, to eliminate that threat.

She just wondered how long it would take him to get around to her. All she knew was that it would be soon, because the longer the fight went on, the more of his pilots would get shot down and he risked being left alone with multiple enemies.

She had her answer when a thick stream of bright tracers flicked past just over her right wing.

She dived away from the bullets, pushing her nose down so hard that her vision turned red and her eyeball seemed to swell in her skull, almost instantly, though, she did a quick roll, then pulled the stick into her stomach, pulling hard G’s and draining the blood away just as quickly. More bullets flew past, but they went under her wing, missing her by even more than the first burst had and she laughed; Gruber must have been desperate to have even taken the shot.

As she approached, then passed the vertical, her speed rose and the G’s increased, but she kept the stick in her lap and forced her neck to turn, looking for Gruber over her shoulder.

He had followed her into the dive, trying to cut her off, but his shots had cost him; the incredible weight of metal his guns could throw easily ripped apart any target that he hit, but the recoil from them was just as incredible and it had slowed him and he was only just going through the vertical as Dragonfly’s nose approached the horizon.

His face was craned up to glare back at her and she lifted her left hand from where it had been helping her right to keep the stick fully back, grunting at the supreme effort that it took and gave him the two-fingered salute.

She grinned in satisfaction when she saw Gruber’s face contort in rage; an angry pilot was one who made mistakes and she would need every advantage that she could claw for herself to win against the Prussian - she was the better pilot, there was no doubt about that, but Flamme was the better machine; the Prussians had far more resources than the blockaded British and they had given the man everything that he had asked for and more, including the latest technology and the best materials. His machine had a tighter turning circle than Dragonfly and he was already gaining on her, which meant that if she wanted to be victorious she was going to have to fall back on the manoeuvres she had used against Gwen when they had tested Wasp - she had never told her new pilot, but those dogfights had been practice for this, a fight that she knew she would have one day and which might well play a large part in deciding the fate of Kingdom of Britain and the outcome of the Second Great War.

The weight came off of her as she centred her stick, but it was only for an instant before she was brought up hard against her straps as she kicked the rudder and simultaneously jerked the stick to the side, hurled Dragonfly into a twisting barrel roll that swapped sky for ground and back again in an instant. She looked for the triplane, expecting to find it in front of her, but it wasn’t there, instead, another stream of metal flew past her cockpit, much closer this time.

She threw Dragonfly into one move after another, using every trick that she knew, taking herself and her machine to the limit and beyond, but it was no good, she just couldn’t shake him. She did manage to prevent him from taking another shot at her, though, but that wasn’t going to be enough; she was down to only a quarter tension and would have to break off soon, exposing herself to attack, if the fight didn’t end quickly.

In the end it didn’t come to that.

Her tiredness caught up with her and when she went to pull the stick back to put Dragonfly into another high-G manoeuvre her hand slipped, the strained muscles of her fingers finally giving out.

It was only a momentary loss of control, but that was all that it took.

Multiple overlapping impacts shook Dragonfly’s entire being and Abby cried out as the aircraft lurched to the side, beginning a long looping spin. A quick glance to her left showed her why - almost half of her wing was missing and the loss of lift on one side had caused the imbalance.

She fought the stick, bringing the aircraft back under control with some difficulty, knowing all the time that she was dead.

Gruber had won.

Gwen hadn't bothered to count the number of bombers she’d shot down, or even make sure of the kills, but she savoured each and every one of the red aircraft she destroyed; these were the pilots who had killed so many of her colleagues over France, who had given the Prussians the confidence to think that they could come to the British Isles and bomb what they wanted and she paid them back at more than a thousand rounds per minute.

She didn’t think she’d ever been so tired, not even during the long route marches during basic training carrying almost half her bodyweight on her back, not even during the long weeks of flying nearly ten hours a day, but she refused to give in to the exhaustion, blinking sweat out of her eyes and easing cramped muscles whenever she had the chance and using her anger at the destruction of her fellow Misfits to fuel her.

The Blutsauger that she had shot off Abby’s tail was joined by another as she took down one of the Barons that had destroyed Ballerina, leaving just five, but her jubilation at the kill was short lived and she was left cold when first Derek and then Penelope were taken down by the red triplane, Flamme.

She directed her fury at the man who might have killed her friends, but as she was turning to engage him the remaining four red monoplanes converged on her and she had to throw Wasp into frantic evasive manoeuvres.

With odds of four on one the Barons could afford to play it slow and while two of them engaged Gwen up close the other two got some distance and climbed, obviously intending to use the tactics that the Misfits had on them.

However, they had completely forgotten about the lone fighter remaining from B flight.

Kitty had been loitering overhead in the sun, watching the battle unfold, anxiously waiting for a chance to intervene that had never come. She had watched her fellows dive to their death and realised that a similar fate was waiting for her if she tried to do the same thing.

Now, though, with Gruber engaged, she could act almost with impunity.

She dived on the two Barons that were clawing for height, using her air brakes in order to give her more time on her targets, but, even so, she was going well in excess of four hundred miles per hour when they got in range.

A short burst from more than five hundred yards swatted the first aircraft from the sky, the tight grouping of guns underneath her nose permitting accuracy at such distances. She adjusted her aim to the second Baron, then opened fire at much closer range. A single loud shot came from each of the two cannon beneath her nose and her machine guns lasted a heartbeat more, but then silence fell. The second aircraft lurched, struck hard, and started a slow turn towards home, but Kitty barely saw it; she was too busy cursing the fact that she was out of ammunition.

Gwen saw the two fighters meet their ends and smiled as Kitty’s colourful aircraft flashed past, but that smile disappeared when Kitty’s voice sounded in her ears. It was totally devoid of the energy and enthusiasm that it usually had, instead it was dull with exhaustion and tinged with anger. ‘I’m out of ammunition and down to one tenth tension. Sorry, Gwen, I have to head for home.’

‘Don’t worry, Kitty. Go. And remember you need to land at Hawkinge.’

Kitty swore, before laughing nervously. ‘Thanks, I’d forgotten! See you there.’

There was a long pause, during which Gwen rolled out of a steep turn and onto her opposite wing, coming up behind one of the two remaining fighters.

‘Gwen.’

‘Yes, Kitty.’

‘Give them hell.’

‘Roger that.’

Gwen depressed her firing button and tracers leapt out towards the enemy aircraft, tearing it to shreds. It spun away and she looked for the last one, finding it almost a mile away and diving hard towards the clouds and safety.

‘Oh no you don’t.’

She swung Wasp to follow, but before she could dive her eyes were drawn inexorably to the last two machines sharing the sky with her, slightly below her less than a mile away and she watched in horror as they were joined momentarily by a delicate line of fire, which sent large chunks of yellow wing spinning lazily away.

Gwen didn’t hesitate, she abandoned the fleeing Baron and turned towards the fight, pushing her throttle to the stop and praying that she wouldn’t be too late.

Gruber savoured the moment, watching the hated enemy who had caused him so much shame, Abigail “Abby” Lennox, the “Abbess”, struggling for control of her gaily-painted aircraft.

The aircraft that would soon be spread across the countryside below.

Countryside that would very soon belong to the Prussian Empire.

He had been promised land in England and a title to go with it and he amused himself with the thought of requesting the piece of land where his greatest enemy had fallen. Perhaps he would use bits of her aircraft to decorate his gardens and lift a monument to his prowess on the spot.

All tiredness was instantly banished from his body as adrenaline coursed through it and his hands curled eagerly around the yoke, his thumb sliding onto the red button embedded in the black leather, but before he could open fire, a flash of pink in the corner of his eye had him frantically thrusting the stick forwards, roaring in rage at being denied his kill.

The red triplane dived away just as she opened fire and she cursed as her shots flew harmlessly over the cockpit, even as she rejoiced at having saved Abby. She tried to adjust her aim, but it was impossible as Flamme turned sharply and passed underneath her.

She banked, passing within yards of the stricken Dragonfly, turning sharply to follow Gruber. He was obviously trying to get behind her, but there was no way she was going to let him and she pulled the stick back into her lap, putting firm pressure on the rudder to keep her from spiralling from the sky.

Gwen’s vision narrowed, her eyes glued to her enemy, her world reduced to just her and Gruber as the two aircraft wheeled around each other on two sides of a tight circle. She had no need to look at her instruments, no need to search for the trimmer or the throttle; every minute adjustment she needed to do came naturally to her, the hours spent in the cockpit making her relationship with Wasp less that of a pilot and her machine and more akin to a symbiosis.

She matched Gruber’s every attempt to influence the turn and saw his mouth drop open and his eyes widen when he realised that the two machines were almost completely evenly-matched. She had to laugh; the expression was exactly the one that he used every time on the big screen when he was about to be shot down by the good guy, or had just had his advances refused by the heroine.

She saw his eyes go to his instrument panel and knew exactly what he was looking at - home for him was across a strip of water that looked so narrow from this height, but was miles and miles wide and had already swallowed many pilots, both British and Prussian. - he needed a fair amount of tension to make that trip safely, especially if he had to do it at top speed. Safety for her, on the other hand, was any field she could find, or, failing that, an open cockpit and an easy jump - she could afford to use every single last Newton per yard of tension in her spring.

His eyes flicked to the clouds and she smiled grimly at the confirmation that he was running low on tension. She could almost see the calculations taking place in his head as he worked out how much more time he could afford to spend trying to outsmart his opponent, whether it was worth staying and hoping that she made a mistake, or whether he should immediately make a break for it and run for home, keeping any spare tension he had in case something unexpected happened.

Gwen wondered whether the Prussian was one to take a risk or if he would play it safe. Everything Abby had told her about the man pointed towards him not putting his own life at risk unnecessarily, but he might still surprise her...

He didn’t.

Almost as soon as Gwen had finished the thought, Gruber reversed his rudder and stood Flamme on its nose, streaking straight for the clouds that had been slowly thickening below them as the minutes had gone by. She had been expecting the move and followed him immediately, plummeting out of the sky with him less than a hundred feet behind.

Gruber had seen her react and obviously knew that he wasn’t far enough away from her to dive in a straight line - that would be tantamount to handing her his life - so he went into a defensive spiral, making it incredibly hard for her to target him. The G forces must have been immense, but the man kept it up, spinning and lurching from side to side unpredictably, preventing Gwen from getting her sights on him.

With every passing second they were getting closer and closer to the cloud cover and finally she realised she couldn’t wait for a clean shot, she had no choice but to take a chance.

She pressed her thumb on the firing button and kept it there, praying that her ammunition wouldn’t run out before she hit him.

For a couple of seconds Flamme seemed to wheel around the deadly stream of metal, going around and under it as Gwen gave her rudder small touches to try to follow him, but then, unbelievably almost, the aircraft passed through it.

Bullets from Gwen’s cannon ripped through all three of Gruber’s wings on his left side, opening huge holes in the metal covering them and drastically reducing their capacity to create lift. Flamme’s spiral intensified, going from a brilliantly controlled manoeuvre to an out of control tumble in an instant before turning into a deadly flat spin and Gwen saw Gruber’s head bang against the side of his cockpit as the G forces on the aircraft grew to a level that it was impossible for a human body to withstand.

‘Come on, get out, get out...’

Gwen found herself almost pleading with the man and realised that after everything she still didn’t want to watch him die. All of the other Fleas she had shot down had been faceless men, complete unknowns, and she had almost been able to imagine that she was just destroying their machines, but Gruber was different; he was too well-known to her. He had been a friend, a hero, a gallant enemy, a role model. Someone to aspire to being. Someone to fall in love with.

Yes, she hated the leader of the Crimson Barons because he’d killed many of her countrymen in the past months and possibly some of her friends that day, but she still found it hard to see Hans Gruber as her enemy.

‘Jump, damn you, jump!’

The clouds were coming up fast and Gwen glanced nervously at her altimeter. The dogfight had started at around twenty-five thousand feet and they now were less than six thousand feet above the ground - they had fallen more than three miles in a very short time and Gruber was running out of air to fly in.

She watched Gruber as he strained against the G forces and was amazed to see that, instead of reaching up to release his canopy, he was struggling with his controls. She could hardly believe that he was even conscious, yet, unbelievably, he was succeeding and Flamme’s spin was starting to slow.

Five thousand feet.

The red triplane plunged into the clouds. They were fairly sparse still and Gwen had no trouble following it, circling around it, throttle all the way back and air brakes out. She watched as Gruber almost brought the spin under control, but then lost it again as his damaged wings rebelled.

Four thousand feet.

Three thousand feet and the aircraft burst from the clouds, the green fields of Kent coming into stark focus, so close below them. They were only a couple of miles from the coastline and Gwen took a split second to glance around to get her bearings, finding the fortress of Dover to one side and the shipping at Folkestone to the other - they were only a few miles from Hawkinge.

Two thousand feet.

Gwen pursed her lips; Gruber was now at the very limit of the altitude at which he could safely jump, but still he was fighting with his controls.

One thousand feet.

Flamme came level, lurched, then came level again, slipping and sliding around the sky until Gruber managed to trim her to some semblance of normality, scarcely two hundred feet above the ground.

Gwen fell in beside him and looked across the gap between them. If his fans could see him now they would barely be able to recognise him - blood was streaming from Gruber’s nose and there was a smear of blood on the glass where his head had hit the canopy, his face was swollen and his eyes were red and filled with burst blood vessels from the extreme G forces.

He was being kept very busy by his aircraft; trimming wheels would never be enough to counteract the damage it had taken, so it took him a while to notice she was there, but eventually he turned his head towards her and smiled, his famous movie star smile somewhat spoiled by the blood on his teeth and lips.

Gwen returned the smile, then gave him a loose salute. He gave her a nod in return, not able to take his hands off of his controls, then looked back to the front to continue his struggle with Flamme as Gwen throttled back to pull Wasp in behind him.

Thank you so much for reading the final chapter of ‘The Battle Over Britain’, 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 the Epilogue by clicking the right-arrow down there on the right. If you missed out on Chapter Eighteen 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.