It’s just before midday on 06 August 1940. As Leutnant Willy Genz circles his Messerschmitt Bf 109 high above England, thick grey clouds shroud the carnage of the Essex countryside. From 18,000 feet above, he sees black smoke rising from a downed Hawker Hurricane. The scene serves as a stark reminder of the constant threat England faces from the relentless raids of the Luftwaffe.
The newly wedded Hurricane pilot, Lieutenant Alan Marsh hangs in a tree near his downed fighter. Fearing he is low on fuel, Genz turns to port, heading in the direction of France, but little does Genz know that he’s made Marsh’s wife a widow.
The flames intensify as the men of the Local Defence Volunteers head towards the burning fuselage. The platoon sergeant is 54-year-old Jack Jones, a carpenter. As Jones approaches the wreck, he stops to listen. The men can hear the distinctive roar of two Merlin engines, and within seconds two Spitfires emerge into view. The lead pilot tips the Spitfire’s wings, before making a steep climb into the clouds.
Aviation fuel fills the acrid air, forcing Jones to take stock of the situation. ‘Townsend, Hill. Look! There’s a pilot in that tree. Norris, White, run back to Farmer Pete’s. Get him to come down with a tractor and a ladder. Hurry.’ Ordered Jones.
The rest of the platoon run towards Marsh, not knowing whether he is alive or dead. ‘Pilot, are you awake? Give me a wave if you are', shouted Jones, with an anxious tone.
As Jones reaches the foot of the tree, he sees blood running from the pilot's nose. Marsh, suspended by his parachute, looks pale. ‘Goodness me, is he dead? Asked Private Henry Murray.
Jones turns around, pointing towards the farmer’s gate. ‘There’s nothing more to see here. Corporal Spinks, take the men over there. Open the gate and wait for Farmer Pete to arrive with his tractor. There’s nothing we can do for him now.’
Three miles away, at the RAF’s 54 Squadron, Percy Dawber is busy inspecting parachutes. As a rigger, he knows how vital his pre-flight checks are. Dawber is currently inspecting the first cockpit. ‘Oh no!’ He shouts. Dawber can hear the dreaded sound of the Luftwaffe. Oo-ma, oo-ma, oo-ma! ‘Blinking heck!. We’ve not been scrambled!’ Percy told himself.
Without hesitating, Percy slides down the ladder and runs towards the crew hut. ‘Luftwaffe. Luftwaffe. Enemy planes. Scramble! Within seconds the squadron’s pilots run out of the door, flying helmets in hand, sprinting towards their aircraft. This was just another day in the Battle of Britain.