Ahelpful airman pointed Gwen towards the briefing hall, which turned out to be a large building, almost the size of the hangar, in the woods a little way past the barracks. It was actually in plain sight of her room, but somehow she hadn’t noticed it before, although that was probably because she hadn’t been in her room very much during daylight hours.

In contrast to the rest of the holiday camp side of the base, it wasn’t built of stone, but was rather an impressive building of cast iron and plate glass, which must have held spectacular balls during the long summer evenings. Its magnificent design, very similar to the Crystal Palace on Sydenham Hill in London, was marred somewhat, though, by the blackout curtains covering every window, many of which were closed despite it being the middle of the day and were probably never opened.

Gwen walked along the small path leading up to the door and stepped inside. Within was a single large room with a small stage at the far end and enough wooden folding chairs to seat perhaps the whole base. The only support for the roof, apart from the walls, was provided by four flimsy-looking iron pillars that sprouted delicate filaments. These met in a spectacular spider’s web of silvery beams high overhead, but once again the effect was spoiled by the curtains which were draped over them, completely hiding the glass ceiling from view.

Six large boards were set up at the far end of the room in front of the stage. The two on the left were covered with maps in what looked like a permanent display and Wing Commander Lennox was filling a third. The others were empty.

Gwen made her way down the central aisle of the seats to the front and joined Abby. The woman was pinning photographs to the board around a large scale map of Kent - they were aerial images of the local landmarks, some of which Gwen thought she recognised from the flight that morning.

‘Visible references are few and far between out here and I had these photographs taken when the squadron first moved here a couple of months ago so that we could familiarise ourselves with them without having to fly around too much - one of the drawbacks of making it so that the enemy can’t see the base is that we can’t see it either! But then Jimmy came up with a bit of a brilliant idea.’

She pointed to the four pictures that were pinned at each corner of the map. Puzzlingly they appeared to show empty fields. ‘Take a closer look at these.’

Gwen leaned in closer and frowned when she saw nothing in them beyond grass and crops.

Abby smiled. ‘You don’t notice anything peculiar about the shapes of the fields?’

‘Well... I suppose they’re shaped a bit like a cross...’

‘Very much like a cross, actually! But not enough to appear completely unnatural. There are about a dozen fields set out just like these throughout the Downs. The longer arm of the cross points towards the base, so if you lose your way and can’t spot any of the other landmarks, then you should be able to find a field somewhere that will point you home. You should familiarise yourself with the rest of the landmarks as well though, just in case.’

Gwen nodded. ‘Will do. By the way, why go to so much trouble to keep the base a secret?’

‘Because Whitehall have always known that the Fleas were going to go after RAC bases to try to destroy our air power by denying us ground facilities and this base is a priority target for the Fleas - a lot of the communications that have been intercepted since we got back from France mention “Operation Odd One Out” which is their code for the search for our base. You’ve been a bit busy recently, so I’m not surprised you haven’t heard, but that’s exactly what they’ve been doing. They’ve bombed out almost all of our airfields in the South in the last week, including your old base, RAC Didchurch and we’re one of the last official RAC bases still operating.

‘Before you ask why they didn’t try to hide other bases the same way they have ours, it’s because it would have been impossible, as well as fruitless - most RAC bases were established well before the war and they’re on every map the Prussians have. And besides, Britain just doesn’t have enough resources to spare to run more than one base like this.

‘The situation’s not as serious as it sounds, though; most squadrons have just moved to flying clubs or private airfields and it’s apparently become quite fashionable among the aristocracy and well-off to have an RAC squadron operating from one’s private airstrip. But it’s not enough just to have a flat bit of grass and a place to sleep, though; many RAC squadrons don’t have proper repair facilities and as a result they’re suffering.’

Abby looked up at the sound of voices and Gwen turned to see the other pilots coming in through the door. They were laughing and joking, making quite a lot of noise and she watched them, soaking in their high spirits.

Despite their jocularity, when they reached the front of the auditorium, they sat down and fell silent, looking at their leader expectantly.

‘Aviator Sergeant, take a seat and we’ll start.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Gwen wandered towards the pilots, looking for an empty seat.

Kitty waved at her from the second row and pointed to the seat next to her and Gwen nodded in thanks and took it.

Abby waited for Gwen to sit down before starting. ‘Right! First of all, I know I’ve already said it, but after today’s display I’m happy to make it official - Aviator Sergeant Stone is joining the squadron...’

She was cut off by the sound of stamping feet and every single one of the pilots turned in their seats to grin at their newest member. Gwen grinned back at them and did her best to meet all of their eyes one by one.

When the noise finally died down, Abby continued, a wide smile on her face. ‘As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted...’

She was interrupted again by laughter, but it didn’t last nearly as long. ‘With Gwen’s arrival we are back up to full strength...’

‘About bloody time too!’ A young man with shockingly white hair in a plain black flightsuit cupped his hands around his mouth to call out.

‘Yes, thank you, Charles. Anyway, this necessitates a bit of a reshuffle. So, Wasp will move onto my wing, which means that Bandicoot will be moving into the three spot and Bruce will become the leader of the second pair. Got that, Bruce?’

‘Right-oh, boss.’ Gwen looked across the aisle to where a man in a dusty-looking light brown flightsuit was lounging in one of the seats in the front row. If his accent hadn’t already marked him out as Australian, the patch on his shoulder showing the white Southern Cross constellation on deep blue background of the defunct Austral-Zealand Air Force certainly would have.

‘Good. At sixteen hundred hours we’ll takeoff and head towards Dover, climbing to angels twenty-two. If Fighter Command has any business for us then we’ll go after that, if not we’ll see if Bloodhound can find us some fun.’ She grinned. ‘It’s been a few days since we had a decent scrap and we don’t want the Fleas forgetting who we are, do we?’

Eager, throaty chuckles greeted her question.

‘Once more, Vulture and Hummingbird won’t be needed for this mission, but your aid has been requested elsewhere. Charles, you’ll take Vulture over Belgium, Fighter Command will give you your briefing at fourteen hundred in the radio room.’

‘Got it.’ The young man with the white hair nodded.

‘And Ophelia, Hummingbird is going into France again, I’m afraid, briefing at fourteen thirty hours, also in the radio room.’

The small woman sitting on the other side of Kitty groaned loudly. She was so short her feet only just touched the ground, with white freckled skin and a halo of the brightest red hair that Gwen had ever seen.

Abby looked at her in sympathy. ‘I know, but you’re the only scout Fighter Command has that can get us clear pictures of the Prussian buildup over the channel and get home safely.’

‘Just make sure there’s plenty of stout in the bar for when I get back.’

Abby nodded with a smile. ‘Drinks are on me, as always.’ There was a cheer from the rest of the pilots at that, but the wing commander immediately waved her hands to stop them. ‘Only hers! I’m not paying for your drinks, you spongers; I’d go broke in minutes!’ She continued speaking over the chuckles. ‘Assembly on the flight line at fifteen fifty hours, until then you’re free to put your feet up. Dismissed!’

As the rest of the pilots began to stand up and file back towards the exit, Kitty turned to Gwen. ‘Scarlet and I are going to get lunch, do you want to join?’

‘I’d love to, thank you! Uh, who’s Scarlet?’

‘That would be me!’ The red-haired woman leaned around Kitty to wave. The woman had a beautiful soft voice with a lovely Irish brogue which Gwen had to struggle slightly to understand. She was wearing a green and brown camouflage-patterned flightsuit that was considerably more drab than anything anyone else, apart from Gwen, was sporting. It also didn’t have any of the liquid filled pockets around the legs and abdomen which combated G forces like most of the rest of the Misfits had built in to their custom suits. ‘The only person in this squadron who calls me Ophelia is Abby, everyone else just calls me Scarlet. You know, because of the hair.’

‘Pleased to meet you!’

‘Likewise!’ Scarlet smiled and the three women stood and followed the stampede towards the doors - none of the pilots wanted to waste precious moments of freedom.

Ten minutes later the three women were sitting in the dining room of the officer’s mess, grouped around the end of one of the tables with Gwen at the head, the American on her right hand and the Irishwoman on her left. The rest of the pilots were in the mess as well, either in their own groups around the tables or sitting out at the bar.

While they were waiting for their food to come Gwen was trying to get to know her companions a bit better.

‘Do you often have to go on solo missions over France?’

Scarlet shrugged. ‘Well, there’s not much for a scout to do now that we’re stuck in England and Hummingbird isn’t much use in a fight, so I tend to get roped into doing things like taking photos of Prussian airfields from close enough to count the aircraft in the hangars, or seeing what the regional commander’s dog is having for breakfast.’

Gwen laughed, but immediately stopped when she realised that neither of the other two were even smiling. ‘Really? A dog’s breakfast?’

The small woman nodded seriously. ‘I landed Hummingbird in a forest clearing, hiked five miles through the trees and sneaked into a warehouse to take pictures of crates which were supposed to contain weapon supplies for a possible invasion. We figured out afterwards that it was some kind of mix up with translation of enemy codes, but they ended up being crates of food for a Prussian Army general’s pack of hunting dogs.’

‘Oh god...’

Scarlet shrugged. ‘You can imagine I wasn’t best pleased with Fighter Command when I found out. I wanted to fly up to London, park Hummingbird on the roof at Whitehall and give them a good talking to.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Abby convinced me to get drunk instead. And paid for the drinks.’ She gave Gwen a lopsided grin. ‘Since then it’s become a bit of a tradition for her to do that every time I go on a stupid mission, which I think is a more than fair trade!’

The three women looked up as a waiter came over with their food. Gwen had ordered a steak, something she hadn’t had since before the war because of shortages and had been shocked to see on the menu, Kitty was something called a vegetarian and had asked for baked potatoes with assorted vegetables and Scarlett had a large slice of shepherd’s pie.

They ate in silence for a while; the same as with sleep, eating was something that was done quickly and whenever possible, and, even though they knew that they had some time to spare, it was a hard habit to beat, especially for the two veteran Misfits.

Eventually, though, they slowed down, as much for their digestion as for a desire to continue to enjoy each other’s conversation and company.

There was something that Gwen had been itching to ask since the first moment she’d stepped into the mess, but hadn’t had the opportunity and she took advantage of the momentary silence to do so. ‘The trophies in the bar. There’s a few red ones... Are those what I think they are?’

Kitty and Scarlet shared a knowing look.

‘We were wondering how long it would take,’ said Scarlet. ‘Usually a guest to the mess can’t take their eyes off them and it’s the first thing they ask about.’

Kitty nodded. ‘Anyone who knows they’re from the Crimson Barons, anyway - there’s been quite a few army generals and cabinet ministers who haven’t glanced at them twice.’

‘We had a few run-ins with the Barons in France and always got the best of them. Over the course of the five engagements we had with them the wing commander shot down one and shared another with Bruce. Cece got one as well and Kitty here got a share of one with Derek.’

‘Wow! So how did you get the trophies? Did somebody have to go out and recover bits of the wreckage? Wasn’t that a bit dangerous? Did you get sent to do that as well?’

Gwen looked at the Irishwoman, but it was the American who answered.

‘Actually, the Barons sent us the souvenirs.’

‘Excuse me?’ Gwen blinked at her.

Scarlet laughed. ‘Yes, it was all very gentlemanly of them. The first time we shot one of them down a courier, one of the pilots, arrived under a white flag on a spring-powered tricycle with the vertical stabiliser wrapped up in white linen. He brought with him a letter detailing the personal history of the pilot whose machine it had been, along with news that he had bailed out and was looking forward to meeting us again.’

Gwen shook her head, bemused. ‘How civilised.’

‘Well, just because our leaders are like a pack of rabid dogs at each other’s necks, doesn’t mean we have to be.’

Scarlet spoke with a straight face and Gwen got the impression that it was something that she and Kitty and probably most of the other pilots believed. She, however, couldn’t quite bring herself to think that way; she hated the Prussians for the death of her husband and wouldn’t be satisfied until they were destroyed utterly.

She said nothing about that, though, and listened as Kitty picked up the story. ‘Anyway, when the same thing happened the second time, Abby sent a message back with the courier to Hans Gruber, their leader, and over the course of a few dispatches she agreed that we would pay the same courtesy to them. They also agreed to return the bodies of any pilot who was shot down and killed over enemy territory. The fourth Baron we shot down went into the drink off Calais and didn’t survive the crash. The Navy recovered the body and we sent it back to them with full honours.’

‘Hans Gruber... I feel like I should know that name.’

Kitty nodded. ‘You should, but only if you stepped inside a movie theatre or read a society paper in the early thirties. He was a big thing in Hollywoodland for a while and did a lot of Flyvies, usually playing the chivalrous enemy - “Heroes Over The Poppy Fields” was one, but he was most famous for “The Baron and the Princess,” which is reportedly where he got the name for his troupe from.’

‘I saw that one four times!’ Gwen’s mouth dropped open. ‘I had such a crush on him when I was ten!’

Scarlet winked, leering slightly. ‘Didn’t we all, luv!’

Gwen frowned in confusion as she tried to take in the information of who was in charge of the most infamous enemy squadron, responsible for the deaths of so many pilots of so many nations, trying to equate the mild-spoken and gallant Hans Gruber that she’d seen so many times on the silver screen with the image she had built of the enemy being half-crazed, die-hard fanatics. She found she couldn’t and forced herself to stop trying, not wanting to humanise an enemy she had sworn to kill. ‘So, why haven’t we seen the Barons over England?’

Kitty snorted in amusement. ‘Apparently they’re doing some kind of recruitment drive propaganda thingamajig through Prussia at the moment, celebrating their victory in France and using Gruber’s fame to drive up the numbers of young men and women who want to join the Fleas.’

Scarlet smiled wryly. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be here soon, I’m sure of it. And then the muck will hit the airscrew, believe me.’

After lunch, most of the pilots returned to the deckchairs in front of the mess and Gwen joined them, finding that there was an extra chair already set out for her.

Conversation was kept to a minimum, though, as most of them took naps, catching up on the sleep that they had lost getting up for that morning’s dawn patrol and making sure that they were fresh for the afternoon’s flight. Gwen found herself nodding off as well and just gave in to the temptation to snooze.

The only time the pilots showed much sign of life was when first Hummingbird, then Vulture took off on their respective missions - the Misfits, woken by the sounds of the airscrews, lifted their feet off of the floor and held them in the air while the aircraft were on their takeoff runs and only put them down when the machines were safely over the trees and into clear sky.

Soon enough, though, it was half past three and waiters came out of the mess to wake the pilots with cups of tea and plates of cake and biscuit. There was just enough time to eat and drink, then pay a quick visit to the barracks and the ablutions before being back on the flight line at ten to the hour.

Gwen and Kitty crossed the airfield together and went into the hangar.

It was a hive of activity, centred around each of the remaining ten aircraft as teams of fitters carried out last-minute checks before takeoff.

Gwen’s eyes automatically went to Wasp, sitting with the other aircraft of A flight to her right. The paintwork still needed a bit of work, but she found she (almost) didn’t care; for the first time she was going to go into combat in an aircraft that was hers. And besides, Sergeant Jenkins had said that the fitters would give Wasp another coat of paint after the squadron had been released that night and would do the same every night until they were satisfied that the colour was as deep as it could be.

Kitty was in B flight which meant her machine was on the other side of the hangar to Wasp. Before they split up, though, the American pulled Gwen into a hug. ‘Be careful up there, OK, Gwen? Stick with Abby; she’ll see you clear.’

‘You take care as well.’

‘I always do!’ Kitty smiled then skipped away to her aircraft, Hawk, a large, twin-boomed monoplane painted in red, white and blue.

Gwen watched the American go with a smile, then walked towards Wasp.

Sergeant Jenkins was waiting for her with the rest of her team of fitters, the five who had worked on the repairs with her. She was about to ask him if everything was ready when something caught her eye and she stopped in her tracks - underneath her cockpit were painted two iron crosses, representing the two kills she had made the day she had been grounded.

She reached out to touch them, but before she could, Sergeant Jenkins spoke from beside her. ‘I wouldn’t, Aviator, they might still be a bit wet.’

She looked up at him. ‘Thank you.’

‘No need to thank me; you earned them and it was a pleasure to put them on. And it’s something we’ll be all too happy to do again, as often as possible! Isn’t that right, chaps?’

He addressed his question to the other fitters, who had been listening and were grinning from ear to ear as they nodded eagerly.

Gwen was about to reply, but Jenkins held a hand up to stop her, pointing over her shoulder as a wave of silence and stillness began to spread throughout the hangar. She turned to see the wing commander standing in the gap between the hangar doors, illuminated by the thin ray of bright sunshine coming between the barely open doors.

Abby looked from one aircraft, with its corresponding group of pilots and fitters, to the next as she waited for the hangar to fall completely silent. When she looked towards Wasp her eyes met Gwen’s and she nodded almost imperceptibly before continuing her sweep, checking the readiness of the aircraft under her command.

Finally the silence in the cavernous space was complete and she nodded to them. ‘Good afternoon, Misfits. Fighter Command says there is plenty of business heading our way this afternoon so everybody stay with their wingman and look out for each other. Stay safe and happy hunting.’

‘Happy hunting.’ The pilots and fitters echoed her words before going back to their preparations, but Gwen stayed where she was as Abby came directly to her.

‘Aviator Sergeant, how are you feeling?’

‘Raring to go, ma’am.’

The woman smiled. ‘Glad to hear it. Now, just remember what I said - stick to me like glue and do not break off unless I tell you to or you have absolutely no choice. No chasing after targets, no matter how juicy they look, because it might well be a trap. By the way, those orders aren’t just because you’re new and it’s not a comment on your ability, it’s just the way we do it - Misfits fight as pairs. Always. It’s a hell of a lot safer.’

‘Got it.’ Gwen nodded. She wasn’t too unhappy about the rule; anything that made sure pilots got home safe was a good thing in her books.

‘Good. Get your checks done, we takeoff in five minutes.’

The woman gave Gwen a last smile then spun on her heels and went off to see to her own machine.

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 Seven by clicking the right-arrow down there on the right. If you missed out on Chapter Five you can go back and read in 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.