Chapter Nine
United States Naval Expansion Act, 14 June 1940
Washington D.C.
Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That the authorized composition of the United States Navy in under-age vessels as established by the Act of May 17, 1938 (52 Stat. 401), is hereby further increased by one hundred and sixty-seven thousand tons, as follows:
(a) Aircraft carriers, seventy-nine thousand five hundred tons, making a total authorized under-age tonnage of two hundred and fifty-four thousand five hundred tons.
(b) Cruisers, sixty-six thousand five hundred tons, making a total authorized under-age tonnage of four hundred and seventy-nine thousand and twenty-four tons.
(c) Submarines, twenty-one thousand tons, making a total authorized under-age tonnage of one hundred and two thousand nine hundred and fifty-six tons.
President Frederick Delano Roosevelt stopped reading the Naval Expansion Act, and tried to see into the future. He looked over at the sculpture of George Washington in the Oval Office.
“We ask ourselves, what would George do?” The sculpture did not respond.
FDR lit a cigar, and thought of Winston Churchill, and knew what Winston would want him to do – commit the U.S. irrevocably to the War. At least he had been able to get an act going to modernize the U.S. Navy. He still kept a special neat pile of telegrams from Winston Churchill and continued to shoo away secretaries who tried to remove them to make room for other papers. Finally they had given up and the pile of papers had gotten its own organizing box. FDR gazed at the box and thought of how it represented England, with the newspaper discussing the fall of France. Underneath the newspaper was a small memo detailing how England and France had been purchasing 90% of American aircraft production. And sitting on the desk today was a newspaper article discussing the war materiel and other goods that were starting to stream towards England in force.
Let’s face it, America is already starting to enter the war.
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Rudy Mitchell stepped out of the taxi at the RAF base at Biggin Hill, clutching a simple bag with some of his things, and a small suitcase. The journey by sea to England had been eventful, with the sinking of several other ships in the convoy he was part of by German U-boats. Rudy had somehow managed to get their Congressional representative from Iowa to make a call to the British Embassy, and Rudy’s first stop had been to Washington D.C., to volunteer for the RAF, present his credentials, get authorization, and find passage on a merchant vessel bound for England.
The farewells had been tearful, but Rudy was bursting to be involved and would not be swayed. He still remembered the resignation on his mother’s face, and the pride in his father’s. Both had been tearful when they had dropped him off at the bus station, and he’d asked Bessie not to come. Her picture felt warm in his shirt pocket, as he looked at his new surroundings, the similarities to America, the differences.
Only hours later, after setting his bag down, he was invited to an informal meeting in the officer’s mess by the squadron commander.
Rudy came to the table and a pilot wearing a leather jacket motioned him over. He glanced down involuntarily at the pilot’s legs – he’d been forewarned that the squadron commander had artificial legs – but was also an ace fighter pilot.
“How do you do, Yank.” and Douglas Bader did a half salute. “You Yanks like shaking hands, don’t you” and he extended his hand, looking intensely at Rudy, who didn’t flinch, but shook his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, sir, Rudy Mitchell” he said, and reminded himself to not be so effusive as he usually was. He had read about stereotypes of Americans that English had, and he wanted to focus on fitting in, and not standing out.
“Well Rudy, it’s very grand of you to show up here, and I just want to make absolutely sure you know what we’re up against. You’re already here, and no one is going to turn you away, based on the spot we’re in – but there’s a question of where to put you, and how much training you need.” Bader said, and eyed Rudy, searching his face, looking for any telltale signs of nervousness, fear, anything that could be seen on the surface. This one looks cool as a cucumber – on the surface at least.
“Certainly, I understand that.” said Rudy. “All I can say is that I’ve flown hundreds of hours, mainly in biplanes, on the farm, and barnstorming at county fairs” he looked to see a slight smile cross Bader’s face, and he plowed on. “And I had a cousin who worked at the Curtiss Aircraft company, so whenever I had the chance, I volunteered to help fly prototype aircraft, including the P40”. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Limey bastard. Rudy grinned.
Douglas Bader didn’t bat an eyelash. “Then you’ll be pleased to know that a representative from Curtiss aircraft has been here in Europe since May, with several cohorts, assessing the progress of German, French and English aircraft”
“Oh is that right? Who is it?” asked Rudy.
“Benjamin Kelsey, an aeronautical engineer.”
“Ah, I’ve heard of him. He wanted to equip fighters with superchargers to be able to better fight in the European theater; I think he’s from Buffalo.”
“So, you flew the P-40?” asked Bader, putting his hands together thoughtfully.
“Yessir, it doesn’t have a two-stage supercharger so it’s not quite up to the mettle of the Messerschmitt Bf109, but it’s still got a lot of bite, and it’s a nice flyer.”
Sometimes you had to make split second decisions in the air, and sometimes you have to make decisions with your gut. This Yank seems to be ok, and we don’t really have time to waste. He’s got hundreds of hours at a time when some go up into battle with less than 50.
“So I guess you’ve already burnt your bridges back in the States?” asked Bader, knowing that technically Billy had violated U.S. neutrality laws in coming here.
“Yes sir, and I’m prepared to face the consequences” said Billy. It had been a surprise at first, but the people who had passed him along to the British consulate had more or less said “you weren’t here and we didn’t have this conversation”.
“Ok then, well then let’s go ahead and get you up in the air for practice maneuvers, and whenever I say you’re ready, you’ll be free to go on patrol, and potentially be in combat. Officially we’re a Hurricane Squadron but we have a few Spits.”
“That will be just fine.” said Billy, and felt his pulse rise. I’m going to fly!
And the next few days were a whirlwind of last minute training, getting used to the communications, controls and flight characteristics of the British aircraft.
Rudy paused one afternoon to write a letter, in case it should be the last he wrote back to the States.
Eric Wallace also wrote home, from the same base at Biggin Hill, and their letters were very similar.
Dear Mother,
Just wanted to dash off a quick note, to give you a sense of how things go by day.
The morning starts with the mist burning off by the sun, and the dawn chorus of the birds fills the air and then you hear the sound of roaring engines and the activity of the base.
The daily routine begins with a cup of tea, then jumping in a lorry to be driven out to dispersals at grass runways. Meanwhile armourers, riggers and aircraft fitters start the engines, checking on any repairs and loading up ammunition. The tanks are filled with high octane fuel, and you can try to make a bit of breakfast in a readiness hut, as long as you are within sprinting distance of the aircraft.
And then the waiting begins. We sit spending time reading popular magazines, such as Lilliput or Picture Post, playing dominoes or chess, and we try not to think too much what days like this will hold.
Then at times we practice a scramble, and run for our planes, and we’re up in the air, for a real or practice patrol.
It won’t be long before the routine becomes real. I think the waiting will become the hardest part.
More later.
-Eric
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Winston Churchill sat in the Préfecture in Tours in France, on the 13th of June, 1940. France was falling everywhere, and this was likely to be the last meeting of the Supreme War Council. Reynaud and his cabinet had been forced to leave Paris, the mood was grim, and wrangling had continued over the level of support from Britain. Weygand's catastrophic account of the military situation reinforced British pessimism. Despite assurances from Admiral François Darlan, there was now a palpable concern that the powerful French fleet might fall into German hands
Winston Churchill rubbed his eyes. When the French had stated that they would make a separate peace, against all prior agreements, the British had received the news with shock and horror. We must fight, we will fight, and that is why we must ask our friends to fight on. Reynaud called for British understanding, asking again for France to be released from her obligation not to conclude a separate peace now that she could do no more.
The only bright spot on the otherwise evil day had been to receive the news of America signing the Naval Expansion Act. Thank God they are finally taking decisive action to prepare for the inevitable conflict ahead.
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Edith sat with her parents in their cottage, drinking tea, trying to re-assure them that their little girl was quite grown up now and doing just fine, and doing her bit. Her mother was hovering over, and it was almost smothering, but Edith withstood the attention and held back from shooing anyone away.
“I still can’t believe why you don’t leave the piloting to the men” muttered her mother, who open the oven where a tart had been baking, using some of the sugar that was becoming more dear, as the supplies dwindled and the effects of rationing were felt. The rationing of food had begun on January 8th, which unfortunately was her mother’s birthday. “What a fine birthday present that was from Herr Hitler!” was her regular refrain.
It had begun with petrol, when Poland had been invaded the past September, and in January, they started rationing butter, bacon and sugar. Mother had the foresight to start stocking up, and felt no shame in it. “I’ll not let the Gestapo into my kitchen just yet!” she had clamored, rising the occasion of any objection.
Her father looked at her over the newspaper, and winked, and looked back down, minding his own business. Edith knew they both approved what she was doing, in serving as a ferry pilot, and knew that she was stubborn enough to do it even if they didn’t give her the blessing. But they occasionally made appearances if anyone raised an eyebrow. And father had bristled a few times. She gazed at father over her tea, marveling that the quiet bookkeeper would raise his voice at anyone, much less Mrs Greeves. “Now you listen to me, Mrs. Greeves, there will come a time when every man woman and child will need to take up arms or take up something, and there’s no reason we shouldn’t start sooner than later!” His momentary outburst at the bakery had been the talk of the town for weeks, and people had started showing a certain amount of deference to him, and this had increased with the invasion of Poland, and the dark days in France.
Slowly, gently, various women of the village had come up to her shyly when she had been back in town, squeezing her hand and thanking her for doing her bit, and deriving a certain amount of inspiration and backbone from her formerly scandalous actions.
Edith smiled. Now if only the RAF would let me go up in combat.
Every time she took a Spitfire or Hurricane up in the air for a test flight or to deliver one to an airbase, she imagined that she had been in combat, and she skirted the regulations by doing some maneuvers that weren’t strictly necessary, and which probably would raise some eyebrows. And she sometimes stared at the pressure plate on the trigger of the control stick, wishing that the planes were outfitted with ammunition, and found herself actually wishing that the Nazis were already over England, so that she could take revenge for the destruction they had brought into the world, and show them that women were warriors as well, and a force to be reckoned with.