Chapter 2

Wing Commander William (‘Randy’) Ellington

Uxbridge. The ops room, up in the gallery looking down on the WAAFs pushing numbered blocks across the map table, Status board and clock behind. The system was the brainchild of Air Chief Marshall H C T (Stuffy) Dowding. Brilliant man, later treated very badly by the Powers That Be. Anyway, I had help to pick up the way of things.

I’d been there a week, and was at the end of my shift, about ready to return to my quarters, but was intercepted by the AVM*.

(*Air Vice-Marshall, officer commanding 11 Group, fighter stations covering the south-east)

“Ellington! Can you spare me a few minutes?”

What can you say to the god-like being who holds the fate of his officers in his hand? “Of course, sir. How can I help you?”

“Come to my office, please.” I accompanied him to his office, where he waved me to a seat. “Relax, Ellington. I just wanted to talk to you about your last posting.”

“Sir?”

“You worked a near miracle with your squadron, Ellington. I’d be fascinated to hear the details.”

Oh, hell! “Well, sir, Groupie and I were at our wits’ end. The squadron had three incidents in as many weeks, as you know, one of them fatal for the crew of the aircraft. The only thing I could think of was to appeal to their masculinity.”

“I thought that was what killed that crew – beating up the airfield at low level.”

“Yes, sir, but that was ‘hold my beer and watch this’. Stupid, in other words. I thought I’d try to shame them into precision, disciplined, flying. I have a friend who invalided out of the Air Force, and is flying for ATA. He’s Flight Captain at White Waltham.” I was watching him carefully, and he nodded. How much to divulge? “He has a number of ladies flying for him, including one who is passed to fly Beaus and Mossies. She’s young, petite, and very pretty. Had her licence at seventeen, flew for Cobham’s circus. I hadn’t met her, but I’ve seen her fly before the war. Anyway, Squashy ... Flight Captain Simpson ... assigned her to deliver a Beau to us. She flew a perfect circuit, shut an engine down, feathered it, and landed a perfect three-pointer. She did start the engine up to taxi and park. The squadron pilots all went over to see the expert pilot, and you can imagine their reaction when this little five-foot, slim, female climbed down from the aircraft, took off her helmet and shook her head to let her hair loose. We opened the bar, and the guys all listened to her about flying the Beau as if she were a prophet of God. Anyway, after that, I encouraged them to take opportunities to explore the envelope, especially single-engine work, in a safe manner. No problems since.”

“I see.” The AVM appeared to be suppressing a smile. “So some of the things I’ve heard...”

“You know how people exaggerate, sir.”

Yes, he was definitely smiling. “Indeed. I wonder if the lady would be willing to talk to other squadrons? There are none quite at the level yours was, but still...”

“Well, sir, you could ask if she could be assigned to deliver to the squadrons you’re concerned about. Last I heard, she was assigned to number two pool at Whitchurch, since that’s so convenient for Filton.”

He nodded, thoughtfully. “Thank you, Ellington. It seems you’re diplomatic, as well as skilled.”

“By your leave, sir?”

“Oh, by all means. Thank you, Wing Commander.”

I stood, saluted as crisply as I could, turned and left.

I was at Uxbridge for three months, and I suppose they were successful months. Once I had the measure of the system, my practical experience of flying night-fighters helped guide my operational colleagues into position. Of necessity, I was spending a lot of time on the night shift, so to speak, and that was fine with me. There was little time off. In fact, I was due for a forty-eight hour leave when the AVM collared me again.

“Well, Ellington, you’ve done rather well again, haven’t you?”

“Sir? I think I’ve held my end up satisfactorily, anyway.”

“Oh, you have. And your lady friend has made a few appearances at Beaufighter stations, too. If not so spectacular as at your squadron, she’s certainly made an impact. Might you be seeing her soon?”

“I hope so, sir. I’m about due for some leave.”

“I see. Do give her my regards and thanks when you see her.”

“I will, sir.”

“Now, the main reason I wanted to see you...” The man paused, but went on, “I dare say you’re fretting to return to operations.”

“Well, I’d like to get back...”

“You’re a Regular Officer, Ellington? It’s a career?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, there are a couple of slots opening for a Wing Commander. A single-seater wing, and a Mosquito intruder squadron: but I don’t want you to take them. In about another three months, the Station Commander at Manston is taking a promotion to Air Commodore, and will have to move, of course. You’re at the top of the list for promotion to Group Captain. You know the station, and I believe you are the right man for the job. You’ll get less operational flying, but you know the mix, and there’s nothing to stop you flying operationally. Please think about it? Oh, and keep quiet about Group Captain Howard.”

“Of course, sir.”

Squashy came through with his promise. My forty-eight hour leave was spent in mid Wales, with Emily, in a farmhouse. We ate well, slept well – separately – and walked the hills for an hour or so. After lunch, we set off together to return to work. As I drove, we chatted.

“The AVM asked me to thank you if I saw you. Apparently you’ve had a salutary effect on squadrons you’ve visited.”

“That’s very kind of him. It’s been interesting.” She paused. “Will...”

Yes, we’d got as far as ‘Will’ and ‘Emily’, though nothing further.

“Yes, Emily?”

“I like you. I mean, I really like you.”

We were still a few miles from her pool, and I pulled over into a space off the road. The surface wasn’t paved, but it was bare earth and gravel, obviously used for the purpose.

“Emily, you’ve been on my mind ever since we met. You know my wife died in the Blitz?”

“Yes, I ... well, one of the squadron pilots mentioned it.”

“I never thought I’d want to marry again. I mean, Connie and I, we grew up together. There was never another woman for me.”

“That’s ... that’s really hard.”

“Yeah. But ... then I met you. You’re the first woman I thought about since ... well, since Connie.” I stopped and took a deep breath. “Emily, I know I’m older than you, but ... might you consider marrying me?”

There was a long silence, and my heart sank.

“There’s a war on,” she said slowly. “You will be flying operationally. I, well, I watched one of the other ATA girls crash and burn. Either of us could die.” I was about to speak, but she went on, “If we married, we wouldn’t be together much more than we are now, would we?”

“I think being together would be easier if we were married. But you’re right. One of us could die and leave the other.”

She stretched across, put a hand behind my neck, and we kissed. “May I think about it? I think I would like to be married to you, but we both have a job to do, don’t we?”

I finished my tour as a ‘Controller’, was promoted, and posted back to Manston as Station Commander. Emily and I had met a couple of times in the interim, but only for a few hours at a time.

At the station I flew each aircraft that was available – Spitfires, Hurricanes, Typhoons (they were beasts) Mosquito and Beaufighter – as squadrons came and went. I took every opportunity I could to fly, though that was, of course, much less than I had been used to.

In single seaters, I took a wing-man’s slot. Perhaps I should explain. Before the war, the standard formation was based on a ‘vic’ of three aircraft, flying in close formation. Once the war began it gradually became obvious – though some leaders took a lot of convincing – that the Germans had the right idea. Their formations were based on pairs of aircraft, the ‘Rotte’, which flew with another rotte to form a ‘Schwarm’. We adopted the latter and called it ‘finger four’ because the aircraft positions were like the finger tips of a normal hand.

Each formation of four had a ‘colour’ designation, red, yellow, green, blue, and the callsigns reflected the colour and formation position; say, red one, two, three or four. I happily took a number three or four spot, and a couple of times participated in an intruder mission. Until the AVM decided to order me not to do so. I was limited to patrols over England, and night-fighter duties. For the latter, I flew both night-fighter Mosquitoes and Beaufighters.

Flying the Beaufighter at night was, of course, a familiar activity and it was during that I fell victim to a German night-fighter, which was stooging around the base waiting for returning aircraft. A red flare as I was in the glide path, and the lights going out, gave me a little warning, so his shooting was off as I rammed the throttle forward, retracted the undercarriage and flaps, and broke off sharply to port. I felt several impacts, though, including the back of my seat as the Beau picked up speed. I was later told that I came within a few feet of the ground. Somehow I was unaware of being hit myself. My observer, Flight Sergeant Atkins, despite his own wounds, stuck to his post.

Two night-fighters in a duel. The German pilot, having taken his shot, set course for home. For some reason, he didn’t rush. Perhaps he needed to conserve fuel, and Atkins found him after a short search. We pursued, and caught him a few minutes later. The Junkers 88 is a formidable opponent, but we shot him down with a long burst from below and behind. I watched as the ball of flames plummeted down to splash on impact.