Escapes! (11 page)

In the air battles that had raged over the past year of the Second World War, England had pinned its hopes on the fast and nimble Spitfire. When the skies over England had darkened with squadrons of German bombers, the sight of a Spitfire sparked hope and defiance in those on the ground. Across the country, school kids had memorized its sleek outline, and would spot it at once, waving furiously as it soared overhead.

But on that August day, the weather was about the only thing going right. Wing Leader Douglas Bader had trouble with his radio from the start. Then, soon after takeoff, the needle on his airspeed indicator began to swing up and down, and suddenly dropped to zero. The mission needed precise timing — impossible if he couldn't tell how fast he was flying. Someone else would have to steer the group to its target. Bader handed over the job to one of his trusted pilots, “Cocky” Dundas.

Dundas wasn't alarmed. He trusted Bader's judgment and his brisk, on-the-spot decisions. The pilots were a tight-knit group, with confidence in one another.

It hadn't always been that way.

Now it seemed like ages since the Royal Air Force pilots of 242 Squadron first heard they were getting a new commanding officer. Word quickly spread that he was a bit unusual — he had no legs. He'd lost them both in an accident. The pilots groaned.

“I don't suppose we'll be seeing much of him,” they said, rolling their eyes. Just what they needed: a passenger, not a leader. A useless figurehead who would sit in an office.

They couldn't have been more wrong. In fact there was nowhere Bader would rather be than in the air, where his legs didn't matter. A pilot needed good hands and eyes, not feet. And ever since he joined the Royal Air Force at 18, he had lived to fly. Confident and energetic, he had been a bit of a show-off during his training — taking the plane through loops and rolls that were against the rules. But he was so friendly that people readily forgave him.

His RAF report said it all: “Plucky, capable, headstrong.” His flying was rated as “above average,” which satisfied Bader. The only higher rating was “exceptional,” a mark so rare that it seemed mythical.

Bader learned a lot in his first two years, becoming confident in the air, maybe a little over-confident. His instructor had to lay down the law with him: no more stunts. He'd taken his instructor's words to heart, but his friends didn't let the matter go so easily. It wasn't long before he was asked to show his stuff in the air.

“No,” said Bader firmly. The requests turned to needling. One sounded an awful lot like a dare, and that stung Bader. No one could say he was afraid. His mouth set in a grim line, he climbed angrily into a nearby biplane. While his friends watched, he took off and prepared for a strictly forbidden piece of aerobatics: a low roll close enough to the ground to silence any of his doubters.

He pushed the control column over and the plane began to roll to the right as he sped forward. Now the wings were vertical... halfway there.

And then the plane began to drop. Upside down, Bader struggled to complete the roll. Suddenly the left wing hit the grass, bringing the plane's nose down. The plane cartwheeled and plunged into the dirt, smashing the propeller, sending the engine flying. Bader blacked out.

Later, he'd heard the doctor say, “I'm afraid we've had to take off your right leg,” but the words didn't mean anything — not yet. Through the haze of pain that followed he learned that the left leg had to go as well, because infection had set in. And once, while in a dreamlike state, he heard a nurse outside his hospital room hush a noisy orderly: “Shhh! Don't make so much noise. There's a boy dying in there.”

A shock ripped through Bader. He opened his eyes. That's what
they
think! The challenge kept him going, through his recovery, through the pain of learning to walk on artificial legs. He'd been offered a cane, but stubbornly threw it away. “Never!” he snapped. “I'm going to start the way I mean to go on.”

It was a long road back. “I
know
I'll still be able to fly,” he'd said, but the RAF didn't agree. He settled down to a desk job. It was 1933.

Six years later, England was at war. Germany's massive, highly trained air force — the Luftwaffe — would soon be poised in occupied France. Thousands of bombers and fighter planes would stand ready to cross the Channel and begin their assault on England. Their plan was to smash England's air bases before the German army invaded on land. The Battle of Britain — the summer and fall of dogfights over England, and the devastating bombing of London — would soon begin.

The RAF's Fighter Command knew the odds were against them — their small force was outnumbered three to one. They had to build more planes fast, and they desperately needed pilots to fly them. The RAF agreed to give Bader another chance. He'd have to take a refresher course and pass a test.

As Bader reported to the airfield, he realized it had been over seven years since he'd flown an airplane. Aircraft had changed — a lot. He would be rusty, there was no doubt. For a moment, his confidence flagged. What if I fail? He put the thought out of his mind.

At the end of the course Bader had a chance to read his report. His eyes scanned the page. There was the heading he was looking for: “Ability as a pilot.” Under it was scrawled, “Exceptional.”

Legs or no legs, they'd have to take him back.

In the air once again, Bader was rapidly promoted — from flying officer to flight lieutenant to squadron leader in four months. And the skeptical pilots he was about to lead were in for a surprise.

The moment Bader arrived at the airfield as the new commander of 242 Squadron, he strode energetically toward one of the Hurricane fighter planes squatting on the runway. No cane, the pilots noticed. In fact, it was hard to tell that this dynamo, full of restless energy, had two metal legs. The only clue was the lurch in his stride as he threw his right leg forward, cracking it like a whip to bend the steel knee and straighten it out again. Bader pulled himself up on the wing and, swinging his leg over the side of the plane, settled into the cockpit.

For half an hour he put the Hurricane through its paces over the airfield, as the pilots stood watching from below. Three loops in a row, then straight ahead in a spin. Climbing up for a final loop, the Hurricane began to spin at the top, then came out of the spin and finished the loop. After a neat landing, Bader hauled himself out without help and marched briskly past the pilots, who stood openmouthed and speechless.

The squadron was a battle-weary group of Canadians, who'd been let down by commanders before. It wasn't long before Bader won them over. He had a temper and could be gruff. But he seemed fearless, and his confidence was contagious.

In the brief lull before the battle he knew was coming — after the fall of France but before Germany launched its assault on Britain — Bader took his squadron through grueling sessions in the air, testing their skills with loops and spins, all in tight formation. He knew the pilots must not be afraid to push themselves and their aircraft to the limit. They must be able to lock onto the tail of an enemy plane and never be shaken off, no matter how wildly it maneuvered to escape.

Never forget, Bader would tell them, he who gets in close shoots them down.

And when the calls started coming from the Operations Room — enemy aircraft sighted, all pilots “scramble!” — they were ready.

Now, a year after the Luftwaffe's first savage air strikes, the Spitfires kept climbing as they crossed the Channel. They flew in “finger four” formation, the planes in each group of four spread out like four fingers on an outstretched right hand. Leading his pack of four, Bader was easy to recognize by the large “DB” on the side of his camouflage-colored Spitfire. Bader had painted it there so his men could spot him. A cheeky pilot had jokingly asked if it stood for “Dogsbody,” and the name had stuck. Now it was Bader's call sign.

The sun's glare pierced the cockpit glass. Bader's eyes were already burning under his goggles, his body sweating. But that was the least of his worries, he realized. He knew the sun hid their enemies, the Germans' silver-colored fighter planes — Messerschmitt 109s.

That much had not changed since World War I, when dogfighters such as Billy Bishop had warned, “Beware the Hun in the sun.” It was the enemy's favorite direction for attack, coming out of the sun, their prey blinded by the glare.

Now, high above the French coast, Bader rolled his head from side to side, scanning the sky for the dark outlines of enemy planes. Glancing down through the broken clouds he glimpsed bursts of fire from the Germans' anti-aircraft guns, then the patchwork of farmers' fields.

In his mind Bader quickly went over the setbacks so far. It was not one of his best days. First the radio, and then his airspeed indicator. Now one of the squadrons was missing. They were supposed to fly above Bader's group, covering them. They must have gone astray.

A voice crackled over the radio. “Dogsbody, 109s below, climbing up.”

“Where are they? I can't see them.” Bader's tone was crisp.

“Under your port wing.”

There! Ahead, to the left, he could see a dozen Messerschmitt 109s. They were flying about 2,000 feet below the Spitfires, climbing slowly and turning toward them.

Perfect, he thought. A climbing aircraft is a sitting duck for an attack — it's moving slowly and is hard to maneuver. As Bader well knew, the pilot flying the highest controls the battle. The advantage was definitely theirs.

“Dogsbody attacking.” Leading his group of four, Bader dove. Too fast! He had misjudged and was now hurtling toward one of the enemy planes much too steeply.

There was no time to fire. Bader swerved and dove under the 109, barely missing it. Plunging far below the battle, he finally leveled out at 24,000 feet and looked around. Nothing but blue sky. He was alone.

Bader cursed his bad judgment. He was too tense. He hadn't flown so rashly since the first time he'd seen an enemy plane. Now he knew better: it was useless to rush at the enemy like that. Always approach the target slowly. You'll never get him in a hurry. Maybe his exhaustion was showing — he'd been flying missions almost daily for five months.

But what now? He could continue toward the mission target and hope to link up with the others. Or he could follow the advice he gave his pilots when they found themselves alone — dive to ground level and go home. It was too dangerous to be on your own in a hostile sky.

Then a sight up ahead took him by surprise. Three pairs of Messerschmitt 109s flying with their tails to him. He knew where they were headed — for the British bombers.

Bader dropped below and patiently closed the distance between them. If they see me, he thought, I'll dive and return to base. No 109 can keep up with a Spitfire in a dive.

But they didn't see him. His own words to his pilots surfaced again in his mind — Don't try to fight alone. But he couldn't let them reach the target! He looked behind him — there was no one on his tail.

Ignoring his own advice, Bader closed in on the middle pair and fired. The rear 109 plunged down, streaming flames and white smoke. The other planes kept flying. Bader was surprised. Were they blind?

Bader couldn't resist the temptation to take one more shot. He quickly closed in on the plane still in the middle, steadying his Spitfire in the 109's rough slipstream. Then, lining it up in his sights, he opened fire.

His thumb was still pressed against the fire button when he suddenly glimpsed the two planes on his left turning their yellow noses toward him. In seconds he would be trapped.

Bader shot a glance at the pair of 109s on his right. They were still flying straight ahead, the sunlight shimmering on their silver bodies, the black crosses visible on their sides. He knew that with their guns fixed to fire ahead they were harmless to him, unless they turned. I'll pass over them, he thought, then dive and head home.