If they come, we’ll give ‘em what for…! Davids told himself, more out of reassurance than certainty. The Matilda had been christened ‘Queen of the Battlefield’ after the combat experiences in France, and it’d proven highly resistant to frontal attack from German tank guns at longer ranges, which was of some comfort to be certain…but the ‘if they come’ in Davids’ thoughts was quickly becoming more of a ‘when’ as time passed and they headed into late summer…and the Wehrmacht had hundreds of tanks to throw at them — perhaps thousands — if only they could get them onto English soil.
“Madam to Harlots — show’s over — time to be off, chaps!” Captain Carroll’s voice over the radio broke Jimmy Davids from his thoughts and brought him back to the real world once again. Up at the head of the column, Gallant revved her twin diesels and began to pull away once more down the lane. The rest followed her in turn, oily clouds of exhaust billowing into the air around them as the eight tanks got back up to speed, a brace of trucks and tracked Bren carriers following on behind. Davids lowered himself a bit further down into the turret, his backside finding his commander’s seat in its raised position. Just his head now poked out of the hatch, but that was enough to provide an excellent view. He pulled up the goggles that hung about his neck and seated them properly over his eyes. Much as he preferred the relatively fresh air outside to the interior of the tank, diesel fumes and dust and such like were things he preferred to keep out of his eyes.
‘Queen of the Battlefield’, the infantry and armoured corps called the Matilda, and it hadn’t taken long for the men of Squadron A to warm to their CO’s slightly ribald idea of coining their radio call signs as ‘Madam’ (his command tank) and his attendant ‘Harlots’ (numbers –2 through –7). Much fun was made of it on- and off duty and it helped raise morale a great deal. Anything that helped morale was important in the current climate.
The vehicles rumbled on at a little less than 20 kilometres per hour, their tracks tearing up the dry earth of the lane and sending dust clouds about that would’ve alerted every enemy pilot in the area had there been any more about. It was a fine, clear day and the tanks had already acquired a fine layer of tan-coloured dust over their hulls and turrets that all but obscured the khaki and dark green diagonal stripes of the camouflage scheme they sported as standard. The unit was headed east to join up with the First London Division stationed in Kent, the area deemed to be the most likely place for invasion should the Germans decide to cross the Channel and therefore where a credible armoured presence was most needed.
At least we’ll be on the defensive, if they do come, Davids thought to himself as the column cruised on. Always easier on the defenders if they’ve prepared positions. Just how much easier, or whether it’d be enough, was a question that Davids couldn’t answer. He doubted, in all honesty, whether the War Cabinet could answer it either.
Luftwaffe airfield at St. Omer
Northern France
As Trumbull tried to find somewhere to land his Spitfire and Davids contemplated the dangers of being a tanker, Lieutenant-Colonel Carl Ritter eased back on his twin throttles, lowered his flaps and banked his Zerstörer smoothly to starboard. He felt the increased drag immediately as airflow adjusted around altered control surfaces, generating extra lift, and the flick of a large, red-knobbed lever by his thigh lowered the aircraft’s landing gear. The subsequent mechanical whirring and thud as it locking into place was as reassuring as the green status light on his instrument panel.
Although a relatively large aircraft by the standards of the day, the Messerschmitt J-110 was a breeze to fly in comparison to some of the others Ritter had encountered during his career in the Luftwaffe. Guiding his J-110C with casual ease, he watched the markers at the near end of the grass airstrip slip beneath his nose as the needle of his altimeter wound down below 200 metres. His main wheels touched down a second or two later without even a single bounce, a deft, perfectly-timed flick of his wrist on his stick and a twist of the rudder pedals enough to ensure a last-minute arrest to the speed of his descent.
Once again, as he often did of late, he made a point of reminding himself of his aircraft’s revised military designation. A few months earlier, a new system of classification had been handed down by the OKL in the interest of standardisation and simplification. From that point on, all fighter-type aircraft would be referred to officially by their RLM model number, prefixed by the letter ‘J’ for ‘jäger’ or fighter (literally ‘hunter’). Under the new designation system, his heavy-fighter — which he still generally referred to by its old title of ‘Messerschmitt bf110’ — had officially become a J-110 Zerstörer, that model in particular being a J-110C. Ritter smiled as he considered the situation. He’d recognised as soon as he heard of the changes that the whole thing made a great deal of sense. Previously, aircraft manufacturers had allotted their own designations and model numbers, variations and paperwork proliferated as a result, and requisitioning of parts and records keeping generally was a constant nightmare. Now there would just be a single letter prefix, the letter determined by the type of aircraft in question, followed by what would become a sequential numbering system for subsequent new aircraft. It would certainly make things much simpler for all concerned in the long run, but Ritter also knew that old habits died hard in any military organisation. It’d be some time before anyone in the Luftwaffe really thought of their old aircraft by their new designations.
“You’re going to misjudge that one of these days, Carl…” his wingman and XO, Captain Wilhelm (‘Willi’) Meier, observed over the radio. Ritter shot a quick glance back over his left shoulder and smiled with vague cockiness as he returned his eyes forward once more, hauling his throttles back even further and turning his landing run into a taxi toward the main buildings at the far end of the strip. His executive officer was a capable pilot and a good friend, easily experienced enough to command his own fighter wing, and had held the position as Ritter’s XO for the last six months. The pair had developed something of a symbiotic relationship in the air during that time, the closeness of which had saved both men more than once. As Ritter was taxiing, Meier was still airborne and carrying out a much slower, more cautious and, moreover, a more orthodox landing approach several hundred metres behind.
“I think Herr Meier is jealous, sir…” Corporal Kohl observed over the intercom from his gunner’s position at the rear end of the long, ‘glasshouse’ canopy “…if the captain had been a little quicker, it might’ve been he who picked up that Spitfire!”