Battle of Britain Read Online Free PDF Page A

me.
    â€œHow dare you!” she yelled at him. “Call a policeman, someone.”
    â€œCome on, Paddy, let’s get out of ’ere. ’E’s not worth it.” And the two soldiers walked away.
    â€œWhat a horrible man,” said Edith, but then I heard someone further back in the queue shout “RAF cowards!” I could see by people’s faces that they took the soldier’s part, not mine. I was only too happy when I reached the darkness of the cinema.
    There was a newsreel about the Dunkirk evacuation. The soldiers looked grim and exhausted. On the wireless it said that they came off the boats smiling, but I didn’t see anybody smiling. It was a miracle they’d got so many off, but it was still an awful mess.
    All the pride I’d felt at bringing down that Me110 slipped away and I felt myself sinking lower and lower into my seat. To cap it all, the film wasn’t up to much anyway. And the tickets had cost five bob!
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    Mum told me on the telephone that she and Dad had gone round to Mr Jenkins’ house to congratulate him when they heard that his son Bob had got off Dunkirk beach unscathed. But Churchill’s speech hadn’t hit home with Mr Jenkins either.
    â€œJust wanted to say how glad we were that Bob’s home safe and sound,” Dad had said.
    â€œHmmph!” snorted Mr Jenkins. He didn’t invite them in.
    â€œYou must be so relieved,” said Mum.
    â€œMy son was stuck on that Godawful beach for days. . .” said old Jenkins.
    â€œIt must have been terrible,” said Mum. “But at least it’s over. . .”
    â€œBeing strafed by Jerry aircraft, he was, and he says there was no sign of the RAF.” Mum and Dad looked at each other. “Says he never saw a single British aircraft the whole time he was there. Plenty of German ones, though.”
    â€œWell I’m pleased Bob is home safe,” said my dad, trying to keep the peace. “We just thought we ought to pop round.”
    â€œYes,” said Mum. “We’re just happy he’s home safe.”
    â€œNo thanks to your son,” added Mr Jenkins, poking Dad in the chest.
    â€œNow just a minute. . .” said my dad, taking a step up towards the door.
    â€œDon’t you ‘just a minute’ me,” said Mr Jenkins. “My son could have died on that beach. . .”
    â€œAnd mine could die every time he takes off!” said my dad. “The army might be back home, but the RAF are still in France.”
    â€œNot your son, though, eh?” said Mr Jenkins. “Bunch of pansies.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?” said Dad.
    â€œThe RAF. A bunch of pansies! They’re no match for Fritz and everybody knows it!”
    â€œHow dare you!” said Dad. “I ought to punch you on the nose!”
    Mum had had to pull him away. She said she’d never seen him like that before. She said it was like he turned into Jimmy Cagney right before her eyes. I was proud of him. I’d have paid five bob to see him take on old Jenkins, any day of the week. Bob Jenkins was a rotten cricketer anyway.
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    On Monday 10 June, the Italians declared war on us as well – as if we didn’t have enough on our plates with the Germans. Now we had to fight on two fronts, and we’d been stretched to the limit before. Thousands of Italians living in Britain were promptly rounded up and interned, just as the Germans had been at the start of the War.
    Edith told me that an Italian restaurant in London had had its windows smashed the same night. The owner changed the flags outside, swapping them for Union Jacks. She passed by when he was doing it and she saw tears running down his cheeks. Her friends said they’d never eat there again, but she said she felt sorry for him. Typical Edith.
    Four days later and the Nazis rolled into Paris. There was something about the idea of them goose-stepping about in that