Coming Home

The catacombs of tunnels dug deep into the cliffs rang with the sound of metal striking metal. Buried within their depths, something was stirring.

Squadron Leader McLean stood in the officer’s mess, addressing his
troops.
“The Spitfires will be ready tomorrow night. We fly at dusk.”
The pilots sat around him nodded solemnly. They understood the
graveness of the situation fully. The Spitfires were their best hope of coming out of this alive. They were the only ones left capable of flying them. The weight of this mission hung on their shoulders.
“Sir, have intelligence sent word to America yet?” piped up Officer
Gresham. He was one of the oldest pilots they had left, but also one of the most experienced. McLean’s face darkened as he considered the question.
“They transmitted last week. We are still awaiting a response. Consider yourselves alone out there. Don’t rely on the Yanks showing up.”
The pilots around him nodded gravely. They had all known it was a long shot.

The mechanics worked through the night beneath the maze of tunnels.
They fine tuned the Spitfires, and made a few last minute adjustments. Tests were run, and the metal was polished. Once everything seemed to be in working order, they finally fell asleep amongst the oily rags on the floor, exhausted by their labour, warmed by the furnaces that still remained aglow.

Dawn arrived, and saw the pilots return to the Mess for briefing.
Gresham leant against a steel filing cabinet, legs stretched out in
front of him. His face was grim, and he smoked a cigarette. McLean walked in a few moments later. Gresham nodded a greeting as he entered.
“Morning men.” McLean’s authoritative voice belied the nerves he was feeling. The pilots stood and saluted, then returned to their places, many sitting on empty ammo crates which were scattered about the room.
“How’s things down below?” Gresham asked.
“The Spitfires are ready. We’re clear to go ahead at dusk.” McLean replied. He took a cigar from his pocket, and sitting down, lit it with a long match. He took a hard drag before speaking again.
“I aint gonna lie to you boys. It’s a dangerous mission, and not one we expect to come out of intact. Those Germans have got the real deal on their side. We don’t. The mechs have done their best, but they still aint as good as the real stuff.”
Gresham listened in silence. He held McLean’s eye as he spoke. When he had finished, he pushed himself up and addressed the Squadron leader.
“Permission to leave, Sir.”
McLean looked at him and a moment of understanding passed between them. He nodded almost fondly, and Gresham walked slowly from the room.
“Good luck, son.” McLean told him, almost in a whisper.

Gresham followed the maze of tunnels up to the surface. Nodding to the guards on duty at the entrance, he stood back as they pulled open the heavily fortified doors, and sunlight poured in. He took a deep breath as he stepped outside. Being underground for so long really took a toll on a man’s soul. He was almost looking forward to taking to the skies that night.

Lighting another cigarette, Gresham made his way to the edge of the cliff. He sat on a tuft of grass and gazed out to sea, taking in big lung fulls of the salty air. The sound of boots on stone echoed behind him, and he turned his head to nod at the scouting troops who were returning to the tunnels. The sight struck him as strangely picturesque for a moment. Several soldiers, marching through the ruins of Dover Castle, making their way into the modern tunnels dug into the cliffs. He suddenly wished he had his camera with him, and he smiled at the thought.

Facing the ocean once more, his thoughts drifted back home, to his wife and daughter, waiting for him to return from war. He dearly hoped he would live to see them again, but he doubted it was going to happen. He had a feeling that he was going to be taking his last flight at dusk.

The sun set all too soon. Gresham was sat in the barracks playing cards with some fellow pilots when the alarm call came for them to assemble outside. They made their way along the corridors, boots echoing against the rough stone. McLean was there to greet them.

“Men, this is it.” His voice was hoarse with emotion, his stiff upper lip melted by the enormity of what they were about to face. “I want you all to feel proud of yourselves. You’re doing a glorious thing tonight, and your Queen and country appreciate it. You’re gonna be heroes, boys.”

A small chuckle ran through the group. McLean saluted his men one last time, and they responded the gesture, each man lingering longer than usual, expressing their mutual respect and appreciation.

A tremendous rumble began to emanate through the ground which they stood on. Tiny pieces of rock fell as the outline of a large door began to form in the cliff face. The vibrations of powerful engines sent shockwaves, as the Spitfires rolled into view.

Gresham gasped. They were amazing. Each one gleamed brightly in the dusky light. The men stood, awe struck, as six of the incredible machines emerged and came to a stop at the edge of the cliff. The six lower rank pilots stepped up to them, and pulled on their helmets. Then came the most wondrous machine of all. Gresham’s Spitfire.

The wing span was 30 feet wide. It measured 50 feet from nose to tail. The silver metal was studded with cruel looking spines, designed for aerial close combat. The thing was incredible. But above all, it was the eyes that Gresham was awed by. They looked so real, so alive, that he could have sworn he was stood in front of a real Spitfire. Of course, he knew that could not be the case. England had lost the last of it’s dragons in the times of knights and fair maidens. The ones who had not been slain had fled to the Americas a long time ago. They had been the original Spit-Fires. Real, flying monsters, who could throw flames for miles. But now they were gone, mechanical replacements made instead.

Taking one final look at the sea, aglow with the fading light from the sun, Gresham drew on his helmet and hauled himself into the cockpit.

The sky had darkened by the time the squadron had made it to their co-ordinates. Only the sound of the Spitfire’s engines could be heard in the night. Slowly, Gresham drew his team forward, searching for signs of the enemy with the lights from the planes eyes.

“Draw in men.” He spoke into his radio. The remaining pilots pulled in closely behind him in formation. He led them round to circle the area, hesitant to move too far from their set destination.

An hour or so passed before he heard a distant droning noise.

“Here we go! Let’s let these sons of bitches have it!” Grisham yelled down the radio. The pilots spread out into their attack formation, ready to fire on sight. Gresham pulled a lever, and the mouth of his Spitfire opened, ready to expel the missiles housed inside. The enemy loomed into view on the horizon. Gresham cursed under his breath as he made a rough estimate of their numbers.

“OK boys, lets spread out. Fire as soon as you have one of the bastards in range, and do it quick. We’re outnumbered, don’t give ‘em a chance.”

The enemy planes bore down on them quickly, their greater numbers allowing for them to pilot smaller, quicker, less powerful aircraft. Gresham dove right as one thundered toward him. Pulling round as fast as the cumbersome Spitfire would allow, he lined up, trying to get the enemy craft in his sights.

“Damn it!” He yelled, as the plane manoeuvred quickly out of range, and dipped below him. Glancing to his left, he saw one of his squadron take a hit square on, and begin spiralling down toward the sea. Not giving himself time to react, he wrenched the steering lever round, and found himself a new target. The Spitfire’s mouth exploded in a ball of light, as a missile shot forth and found it’s mark in the side of an enemy plane.
“Gotcha, you arsehole!” he shouted, watching the plane spin, smoke billowing from a large hole just below the wing. A loud crunch of metal drew his attention backwards, and he spun in time to see two more of his squadron collide head on with a German plane, and the three of them plunge to the water below. He quickly calculated that he had three more plus himself left, against at least twenty two hostiles.
“Right men, this is it. Take out as many as you can, with no concern to yourself!” The orders he had hoped he would not have to make left his lips, and he gritted his teeth with determination.

The battle raged on. Gresham lost two more men in the next thirty minutes. He had taken a few hits himself. Nothing serious, a few glancing blows here and there. He had personally taken out five German planes, and guessed his squadron had probably picked off at least three. That still left them horribly outnumbered, and as another missile gashed the side of his Spitfire, he didn’t hold much hope of staying in the sky himself too much longer.

As he watched his last remaining comrade plummet to his death a few moments later, Gresham knew all hope was lost. He flew forward as fast as he could make the machine go, then swung round in a wide arch, intent on taking at least three of them down with him. For a moment, he thought it was morning. The glow on the horizon blinded him for a second. At first, he thought the Germans had brought in more artillery, but a glance at his compass told him it was coming from the east, not the west. He squinted his eyes against the light, and watched as three German planes exploded into flames right in front of him. Veering fast out of the way of the explosions, he gasped in amazement at the scene in front of him.

Twelve majestic Spit-Fires glided through the sky. Their scales were aglow with the flames they breathed. Swooping and swerving, far more agile than any metal plane, they drew close and circled his machine, the beating of their wings filling his ears. One let out a blood curdling scream, and they lunged forward together, fanning a wall of flame straight into the German planes.

“Hell yeah!” Gresham shouted, punching the air in triumph. The enemy dropped like flies, no match for the almighty dragons who circled the skies. Gresham watched, in awe, as they swirled, as if in dance. One of them, a majestic beast of blazing red scales, approached his plane. It hovered level with him for a moment, looking him in the eye. Gresham felt something he had never felt before. He felt magic.
"We have always been here, just out of sight. You will win the war with our help." a voice spoke in his head as he gazed at the dragon.
The creatures, the true Spit-Fires of the air, drew back into a v shaped formation, before twisting round in union, and flying back into the darkness.

Gresham, tears forming in his eyes, watched them go,
“Thanks boys.” He whispered. Checking his co-ordinates, he set a path back to Dover, back to his barracks, back to his home.

“Hey Molly, hey Sophie, I’m coming home.”