All language subtitles for MV5BNjNjNGM1MGYt66MjA5Z

Hello, Filter Room.
I have a new track here.

Range of 4-5 miles.
Bearing 1-2-0. No height.

Here's another track. Hostile 2-4.

Sugar 1-5-2-5.

- 12 plus aircraft.
- 12 plus.

'Hostile 2-4..."

Hostile 2-4. Sugar 1-5-2-5.
12 plus aircraft.

Fighter 7-8.12-16.

"Q" queenie 7-7-7-3. South.

Hostile 7-5.100 at 16.

S, sugar 3-5-8-5. East.

Hello, Neethley. Group Controller here.
Your controller, please.

Is that you, Moon?

Have a look at Raid 24.

12 aircraft leaving Boulogne.

Looks as if they're after Tango Convoy
passing Dover. What's the form?

Red section of 22-70 Squadron
are patrolling over Tango, sir.

Er, no. They won't have enough
petrol left if they have to mix it.

White section are on their way
to relieve them.

Er, I quite agree, sir.
I'll get 13-20 Squadron off right away.

5-4...

Get Pimpernel Red and Yellow sections
in the air, Bonzo. Dover 15,000ft.

Angels 15, OK.

Turn that ruddy thing off! Scramble, Red
and Yellow sections, Dover. Angels 1-5.

Scramble, chaps!
Red and Yellow. Dover. Angels 1-5!

Red and Yellow, Dover, 15, 000ft!

- Come on, Batchy, customers waiting!
- Nice work, Skipper!

Identity card and password,
please, sir.

- You know who I am?
- Yes, sir.

Then you don't need
to see my identity card.

Sergeant gave me orders
to let no one in

without his identity card
and obtaining the password.

- I give the orders on this station.
- I know that, sir.

Very well. I happen to have left
my identity card in my office.

I'm sorry, sir. I can't let you pass.

So you're more scared of your sergeant
than you are of me?

I happen to know you well, sir.
There might be a new man on this job.

Quite right.

Well done, Thompson.
I'm glad to see you're not shaken.

- I'm sorry I bullied you.
- That's all right, sir. Thank you, sir.

Oh, what is it now?

You haven't given me the password, sir.

Good man. You've got your wits
about you. The word is "crocus".

Thank you, sir.

Think I'd fall for that one?
Group Captain Tiger ruddy Small!

The Tiger!

'Sapper, Sapper. Beeswax
White One calling. In position. Over.'

Hello, White One.
Sapper answering. OK, OK. Out.

Hello, Beeswax, Red One.

'Red One, you may pancake.

'Vector 2-8-5. Over.'

Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Beeswax Red One answering.

Thank you, Sapper. Out.

Put Hostile 2-4 on the screen.

- Afternoon, Peter.
- Afternoon, sir.

- What's going on?
- Usual stuff.

- They're after a convoy.
- Yes, so I see.

Serial 5-6.
Red and Yellow sections.

1320 Squadron. Intercept Raid 24.

If only they'd stick to convoys...

Hello. Pimpernel Leader,
Pimpernel Leader. Sapper calling.

What are your Angels now? Over.

Have you got
any special information, sir?

No, but it can't be paying them
much of a dividend, can it?

'Hello, Sapper.
Leader answering. Angels 1-5. Out.'

As long as we have
a few Hurricanes airborne.

'Hello, Sapper. Pimpernel
Leader calling. I'm in position. Out.'

The same idea must be dawning
in the mind of Reich Marshal Göring.

Meaning?

Hello, Pimpernel Leader. Sapper calling.

Vector 1-3-5. Bandits ahead of you.
Ahead of you. Angels 1-5. Over.

Well, sooner or later,
sooner is my guess,

he'll employ some of the 3,000 aircraft
he has at his disposal

to prevent our Hurries being airborne.

It's up to 3,000, is it now?

Yes. He's got something like that
between Brest and Amsterdam.

I reckon that makes the odds about 5:1.

More than that, if you discount
our squadrons tied down in the north.

Well, call it 6:1 then.
We can cope with that.

'Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Pimpernel Leader calling. Tally-ho!'

Nice work, Peter.

Thank you, sir.

I sometimes think Bill Ponsford could find
a Jerry in a fog without my assistance.

Been getting any flying lately?

A few circuits and bumps
in the station Maggie,

to remind myself what it feels like
to be airborne.

In Turkey, I didn't get much chance
of flying modern fighters.

I realise that. You must get yourself
up in a Hurricane, Peter.

It's time you caught up
with the rest of us.

I don't want to use the hours
when were so short of aircraft.

Never mind that. There are three
replacement aircraft due this afternoon.

One of the pilots is joining us.
A chap named Baird.

- A Volunteer Reservist, I believe.
- Very good, sir.

And don't forget, Peter...

...get yourself up in a Hurricane.

Don't worry, I will.
When I can find the time.

You must make the time, Peter.
Get Clinton to take on more of your work.

He should be capable by now.

Clinton's all right. All he wants is a
little more experience to gain confidence.

Tell Clinton from me that he won't gain
experience by digging in his garden.

- Barry? Oh, Barry, darling...
- Hello?

- Please come in.
- What's the matter, dear?

The flaming policeman, darling. About
the blackout in the top landing window.

Didn't you tell him
why we keep the curtains open?

Of course I did,
but he won't take it from me. Come on.

Ah, good afternoon, Constable.
Well, what seems to be the trouble?

Trouble, sir? It's a matter of your
blackout. Front window blazing at night.

Hardly blazing, old man.
It's only a 40-watt bulb.

I understand it's possible
to see a naked light.

You manage
to make it sound quite indecent.

Our house faces the end of the runway

and we keep the light on
to help the pilots landing after dark.

Well, she has, sir, But that's as may be,
it's still contrary to the regulations.

My dear chap, it's done at the express
request of Group Captain Small,

the Station Commander.

You're not trying to incite me
to disobey my superior officer?

No, sir. I wouldn't want to do that.

But you see how it is, sir.

Isn't there something else you could do?

Hang out a red light, for instance.

Well, it's an interesting idea.

Fighter 1-2 "R" Robert. 0-5-9-1 west.

Who might that be, do you suppose?

Some senior officer
stooging around, I expect.

Thank you, sir.

It's the first of our replacement
aircraft. Call sign Elfin One.

A ruddy fine time to arrive
with Pimpernel due back any minute.

Hello, Pimpernel Leader.
How are you getting on? Over.

'Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Pimpernel Leader answering.

"Bandits have turned away.
We are returning to base. Over.'

'Hello, Sapper.
Hello, Sapper. Elfin One calling.

"Are you receiving me?
Over to Sapper. Over.'

Hello, Elfin One. Sapper answering.
Yes, I am receiving you.

Steer 2-4-0. Over.

'Hello, Sapper.
Hello, Sapper.'

Elfin One calling. Elfin One calling.

I can see base. I can see base.

"Have I permission to land?
Is this understood? Over.'

Hello, Elfin One. Sapper answering.
Get down as quick as you can. Over.

'Hello, Sapper. Hello, Sapper.
Elfin One answering. Elfin One answering.

"Your message received and understood.
Listening out. Listening out. Out.'

That's what I call
a really conscientious type.

Warn the Practice Flight, Bonzo.

Look out!

Hello, old man. Dropped in for tea?

Thought there'd be more room
on the runway.

Our guests do usually park their aircraft
up there, I'll admit. Hurt your neck?

It's nothing much. I think I must
have strained my ligamentum nuchae.

Your what?

The tendon at the back of your neck.
Keeps your head up.

- You must have noticed it in cows.
- I haven't. Should I have done?

I'm Barry Clinton, Sector Controller,
lowest form of life.

- My wife Nadine.
- How do you do, ma'am? My name is Baird.

I've been posted to this station.
I was bringing in a replacement aircraft.

A replacement? Something tells me
you're not going to be very popular.

It wasn't my fault, sir. Another aircraft
cut right across in front of me.

- It was a mercy we didn't collide.
- It certainly was.

- Hello, men.
- Hello, Barry. What have we here?

One pilot, one Hurricane,
both slightly bent.

Hi, Doc. Let me introduce you.
Pilot Officer Baird.

Hate to disappoint you, but I don't think
you'll need your blood wagon.

All right, Casey,
I shan't be needing you.

- No bones broken?
- No, sir.

You're a lucky chap.
No strains, sprains, pains or blains?

He's got a ligamentum whatsit.

She means ligamentum nuchae, sir.
I think I've strained it.

Hmm, what makes you think that?

I'm a medical student, sir.
Or at least I was till the war started.

It's nothing much.

I think we better have
a second opinion, don't you?

Let's have a look at it.

Hm. I'll give you a lift back
to Sick Quarters in the ambulance.

I'm sorry for all this trouble, sir.

That's all right. See you in the mess.

Goodbye, Mrs Clinton.

- Batchy! You old pirate!
- Batchy!

Where have you been?
I thought you bought it.

So did I, Skipper. So did I.

I saw you go down after that 110.

Oh, that one. Another Jerry crew will be
swimming back to base this evening.

- Good show!
- Whizzo, Batchy!

Did you get shot up?

Only a teeny-weenie one in my glycol tank.
And another in my radio.

So I decided to fizz back to base
while I still had some height.

Glad you made it.

That ends our bedtime story
for tonight, kiddies!

Hold it, chaps!
You haven't heard the half of it.

I'm putting meself down nice
and comfortable on dear old Neethley,

when an angry great Hurricane
comes roaring at me down the runway.

"This is it," I said to meself.
Silver handles and hello, Saint Peter.

- What did you do?
- What could I do, you twerp?

I just shut my eyes and the whole
of my past life loomed up before me.

What a shocking experience!

When I opened them, this other chap
had hopped over me back

like a flea on a dog's tail.

- Shut up!
- What a copper-bottomed ape.

- Who was it?
- A replacement Hurrie, so they tell me.

A replacement? Where is it now?

Standing on its prop
in Barry Clinton's garden!

If he's written it off,
I'll tear him apart. Where is he?

- Sick Quarters.
- He'll be sorry to not write himself off!

Wait a minute, Skipper. He didn't
prang me and I was landing crosswind.

What the hell's that got to do with it?
This is an operational station.

Pie-eyed ferry types should know
darn well to keep out of the way!

Might have slaughtered an experienced
pilot. Written off an invaluable aircraft.

God, how we need them.

Bonzo, this is Bill Ponsford.
I want to speak to Peter Moon.

Hang it all, Skipper. He must have had
his finger out to hop over me like that.

Shut up, Batchy! I mean that.

Hello, Peter.

Hello, Bill. What's eating you?

Steady, old man. I know how you feel.

Yes, I grant you, Batchy is more valuable
than 1,000 non-operational types, but...

Look, let me speak, will you?

"A" and one, Batchy came in
at nought feet and we got no warning.

"B" and 2, this sap is not a ferry pilot,
he's an operational type. Or soon will be.

He's posted to your squadron.

What? I won't have
the damn fellow near my outfit.

And you can tell that to the Tiger.

I sympathise, old man,
but you can tell the Tiger yourself.

- Bring me a pint, will you, Price?
- Very good, sir.

- Hello, Baird. Settling in all right?
- Yes, thank you, sir.

Good. Made your number
with the old man yet?

He wasn't there
when I reported to the adjutant.

- He's in the anteroom now. Have a drink.
- Not just now, sir.

If you're not drinking,
I'll toddle off home.

You see, I have a lonely wife
that needs comforting.

Squadron Leader Ponsford's in there.

He's the Squadron CO.
I should make myself known to him.

- Oh, thanks, sir, I will.
- Good. Cheerio.

Good night, sir. Cheerio.

I spy strangers.
Are you looking for someone, old chap?

I'm... I'm looking for the CO
of 1320 Squadron.

Ah. Well, hold on a minute.
Are you down there, Bill?

Yes, I'm down here.

What is it, Batchy?

An air force officer wishes
to hold converse with you.

Well, I'm Ponsford. You want me?

I've been posted to your squadron.
I'm Pilot Officer Baird, sir. TB Baird.

TB? Sounds a bit septic to me!

So you're the type who nearly wrote off
my best flight commander

and pranged a replacement aircraft.

I'm sorry about that, sir.
It wasn't really my fault.

What do you mean it wasn't your fault?

The other chap came in across wind
without making a circuit.

He was a squadron aircraft
returning from operations.

- But I had permission to land.
- Permission? What permission?

- No such thing.
- Operations told me to get down.

What if they did?

That doesn't give you the right to barge
like a blind bull in a china shop!

My name is Small.
I'm the Station Commander.

There's no need to stand on ceremony.

This is where we relax,
as you may have noticed.

Thank you, sir.

You look as though you could do
with a drink. Come, I'll get you one.

You're a Volunteer Reserve.
Something of a novelty in these parts.

I joined my university squadron
at the time of Munich.

- What were you reading?
- Medicine, sir.

- Chucked up that to join the air force?
- Naturally, sir.

Why naturally?

I'd learn to fly.
Wars are won by pilots, not by doctors.

- You think so?
- Don't you, sir?

Oh, I should. I'm a professional fighter.
Perhaps my views are a bit narrow.

What will you have?
There are a few Scotch ales left.

- Thank you, sir.
- How's the neck?

A wee bit stiff,
but that will wear off, sir.

- Oh, as a medico, you should know.
- Yes, sir.

Do I join the squadron tomorrow, sir?

We won't talk shop now. This is my play
time. See me in my office in the morning.

- I'll be there, sir.
- Skoal.

Now pay attention, all of you!

You've been sent here to guard
this aerodrome. And guard it you will!

Against all unauthorised persons,
saboteurs and assaults from the enemy.

And while you're here,

you will uphold the traditions of the army
before the RAF,

being punctilious and paying respects
to their officers.

Now, a word of warning.

Their Sergeant Majors,
what they call Warrant Officers,

and of which they have a great multitude,

dress very like the real officer.

We don't want no accidents.
Understand?

You don't salute me,
so you won't salute them.

Parade! Attention!

For your information,
that was a Pilot Officer.

Party! Attention!

Stand at ease!

Come in.

What can I do for you?

I have an appointment
with the Station Commander, sir.

- He's busy. Take a seat.
- He asked me to come and see him.

I daresay he did. You're not our
only customer, you know. Sit down.

The old man's ready
to hear the charge now.

Accused, hat off!
Witness escort accused. Party! Attention!

Right turn! Quick march!

Left, right, left, right,
left, right, left wheel! Party, right!

Hello, Baird.

You're joining me in the Hole for a while.

- The Hole, sir?
- The Operations Room.

Operations Room? But I'm a pilot.

So, if you observe closely, am I.

Oh, I realise that, sir,
but it's not quite the same thing, is it?

- Why not?
- You're a Squadron Leader, sir.

Might suggest I'm the more
experienced pilot than you.

- You don't get the point, sir.
- I'm not going to argue the toss.

If you're sent to the Hole, you'll go.
It has its uses. Even for pilots.

Using a crib in a trade
examination is a very stupid offence.

It doesn't help to win the war!
It doesn't help you in your work!

No, sir.

- Do you know whom you're serving?
- Yes, sir. You, sir.

Not any more than I'm serving
the air officer commanding a group!

- We're both serving the King. Understand?
- Yes, sir.

Cribs won't help us.
Supposing an aircraft gets into a spin?

Before I can find the right piece, there's
Saint Peter tap-tapping on my fuselage

demanding my soul of me!

Think that one over!

- Admonished. March out.
- Admonished!

Witnesses escort the accused!
Right turn! Wake up!

Right wheel! Quick march!

Left, right,
left, right, left, right, left.

Pilot Officer Baird
is waiting to see you, sir.

Oh, yes. Send him in.

Come in, Baird.

All right, relax.

- How's the neck?
- Pretty good, sir.

The MO thinks it'll take
two to three weeks to get right.

He's a very cautious man, sir.

That's a quality I approve in doctors.

Sir, is it because of that you're sending
me into the Operations Room?

Oh, Squadron Leader Moon
has told you, has he?

Yes, that's the reason.

But I can fly perfectly well, sir.

I've no doubt you can,
but that's not what we're here for, Baird.

- Operational flying's a different matter.
- I'd be all right, sir.

- Ever heard of Messerschmitt twitch?
- No, sir.

It's a nervous complaint
contracted by fighter pilots.

From constantly looking over the shoulder
to see if there's a Jerry on your tail.

You'd find that a bit difficult,
wouldn't you?

I'll risk that, sir.

Understand this, Baird.

I'm not in the least interested
whether you get shot down or not.

All I'm interested in is the efficiency
of the squadrons under my command.

The squadron is a team.

Each member must have confidence
in every other in attack or defence.

It takes quite a time
to build such a team.

I won't jeopardise one of the finest
squadrons in Fighter Command,

so that you can poop off your guns.

- Is that clear?
- Yes, sir.

Good. Now I suggest that you get along
and report to the Operations Room.

If you keep your eyes and ears open,
you could learn a lot.

If I had my way,
all pilots would do a spell in there.

Thank you, sir.

Good luck, Baird.

Don't try and rush your fences.
You've got a good report up to now.

Just ease back
and take things in for a bit, hm?

Yes, sir.

- Ponsford to see you, sir.
- Ah, come in, Bill.

- Morning, sir.
- Morning. Have a cigarette.

Oh, thanks very much.

- You want to talk to me about Baird.
- Yes, sir, I did, as a matter of fact.

Well, don't worry.
He's not fit for operational flying yet.

It's just as well, anyway.

I'm posting him non-effective to Moon
in the Operations Room.

Thank heaven for that.
Poor old Peter.

Oh, don't underestimate that boy.
He's keen and an above-average pilot.

Well, he started here
with a big enough black.

Yes, I know how you feel about it.

I was going to tear him off
the strip myself,

but it's not the right treatment.

He doesn't understand
what squadron esprit is about.

He's suffering from
a big enough sense of injustice already.

Ah, hello, Baird. I was expecting you.
Make yourself at home.

We rather pride ourselves on our hole.

Not such a gin palace as some of them,
but it has its exclusive features.

That glass wall map where we stick our
fighters and raids we're interested in.

Ops B with his lines
to Squadron dispersal.

Ops A in touch
with her counterpart at Group.

Our brown colleagues,
Ack-ack and Searchlight Liaison.

And, of course, the beauty chorus.

Every girl hand-picked.

You don't seem to approve
of our domestic activities.

It's not that, sir.
A bit surprised, that's all.

It's a peculiarity of the female
that she can only relax by being busy.

- I suppose it is.
- You don't seem very impressed.

Group Controller, sir. About Raid 75.

That's what comes of nattering to you.
Clear the deck, Soss.

- Serial 9-6.
- I'll take it.

- Two sections, 2270 Squadron.
- Neethley Controller here, sir.

Patrol Ramsgate, 12,000ft.

Yes, sir, we've two sections
on patrol over Ashford, sir. OK sir.

Scramble Beeswax Blue and Green, Tom.
Ramsgate, 12,000ft.

Beeswax dispersal,
Scramble Blue and Green.

- Morning, Tom.
- Morning, sir.

Wotcher, Septic, you old assassin!
So this is where you hide.

"R" Robert 9-7-2-9...

Well, don't look so boot-faced, old boy.
No offence meant.

But after all you did very nearly land
on my cockpit cover, you know.

- You were coming in crosswind.
- Absolutely, old boy. Shocking display.

Quite Second XI.

Trouble was some Jerry with evil intent
had perforated my glycol tank.

You mean you were shot up?
Nobody told me that. I'm very sorry, sir.

Think nothing of it, Septic, my lad.
Happens every day.

Only some aren't lucky enough
to find a runway to park down on.

Things are beginning to hum.

I have a feeling our absence
might be acceptable.

- Come to dispersal and meet the boys.
- I can't leave here.

Good idea. I can't see the table
through the back of your head.

- Thanks, sir.
- Come on.

I must say I thought it rather raw myself.

But the Skipper's apt to be a bit touchy
about his replacement aircraft.

Pity you didn't open up
and go around again.

I tried. Of course I tried.
She wouldn't pick up.

- A habit they have if you do it quickly.
- There wasn't much time.

Absolutely, old boy.
A thoroughly shaky do.

I say, look here, I wouldn't take the CO's
outbursts too much to heart if I were you.

He's a keen type. A wizard squadron CO
and all that sort of thing.

But he's apt to be
a bit touchy sometimes.

He... he's been at it an awful long time.

But he's pure gold when you scrape down.
Absolutely pure gold!

Do you mind if I have a look
over Jemima while I'm here?

No.

How's it going, Wailes?

Sliding a bit easier now, sir. Give me an
hour, sir, I'll have it running like silk.

Good show. I hear they nearly
clapped you in the cooler this morning.

- Won't do.
- No, sir.

How do you expect me to fly
if my rigger's in chokey?

- Very sorry, sir.
- You're a clot, Wailes!

Heh, heh! Yes, sir.

Now, that's a good tip, Septic.

Never get into a kite
until you're sure you can get out. Pronto.

There's many a keen type
plucking his harp now

because his cockpit
wouldn't open up in time.

I'll remember that.

- We've come to readiness, sir.
- Good-oh.

That's Peter Haddon.
Jolly good type. He's got four already.

Gentlemen,
and others of Pimpernel squadron,

meet our latest recruit,
Pilot Officer TB "Septic" Baird,

The celebrated leap-frog man!

- Wotcher, Septic.
- Welcome to Coney Hatch.

- Make way for the stuntman, chaps.
- And may all his bogies be bandits!

Come into our parlour
and inspect the gallery.

On my left, the squadron homework.

This bedraggled streak is Pilot Officer
Mortimer, our tail-end Charlie.

Tail that wags the dog.

This is Wally.

This is Nobby.

Meet Septic,
the celebrated Highland flyer.

- Hiya.
- And this... this is Jacko.

Would this be a bomb sight
of a Junkers 877.

Bang on! Good for you, Septic.

Actually, it's our earliest trophy.

And this is the rudder off a JU 87.

And that's a bit of wing off a JU 88.

Quite a Junkers shop, in fact.

Tactful pilots usually laugh
at this point in my conducted tour.

And this bit...

This is the driving stick off an ME 110.

See? Look here.
"August naturen Gesellschaft.”

German.

- 109.
- Spinner.

And here... Ah, yes, now.

Now, here we have an exhibit
of a special interest to the young pilot.

The most highly derogatory order
of the irremovable digit.

What's it for?

Slinging around the neck of types
who land with their undercarts up,

overshoot on landing or otherwise
blacken the fair record of the squadron!

No doubt you think it's I
who should be wearing it now.

Squadron scramble, chaps!
Hastings, Angels 1-5!

Sorry to drag you from Gravesend,
Richard, at this hour,

but it's the only time to get
all my squadron commanders together.

Well, that's quite all right, sir.

Well, gentlemen,
I was over at Group this afternoon.

You might like to know what the AOC
said about the way things are going.

- And are likely to go.
- Oh, thank you, sir.

Keep your thanks until after you've heard
what he's said, Richard.

Very briefly, Intelligence believes that
the Jerries have been probing so far.

Testing our defences.

At any moment now,
the real shenanigan may start.

I've often wondered why the Luftwaffe
hasn't put up a better show.

For the old reason, Bill. The strong
always underestimate the weak.

We're not as weak as that, sir.

How many squadrons
in Fighter Command, John?

- About 50.
- Yes, 50 to defend the whole country.

22 in this group.

On the same basis, the Jerries have 120
squadrons of bombers and 80 of fighters

from Brest to Amsterdam alone.

- Makes you think.
- It makes me pray.

You'll be wasting your prayers,
but for three things.

We've got better aircraft, better pilots

and perhaps most important of all
we have radio location and ground control.

That's where Peter and his boys
in the Hole come in.

- Hear, hear.
- What will the next move of the Jerry be?

Yes, I'm coming to that.

You can bet that he's got our Ops Rooms
and sector stations ringed on his maps.

If he can flatten our fighter defences,

then all the rest of it is
a piece of cake to him, invasion and all.

Get your Emergency Ops Room
on the top line, Soss.

Yes, sir.

Meaning we can expect
some unwelcome visitors any time now.

Exactly, Peter.

Oh, yes, and talking of visitors,
much as I regret it,

we shall have to curtail
our social activities here.

I don't like risking wives, sweethearts
and also-rans on the aerodrome

under the circumstances.

So I'm afraid next Sunday's cocktail party
will have to be the last.

So, let's make it
a memorable praznik, huh?

- Have some sherry.
- Thank you.

Groucho Carfax's sister Betty, sir.

- How do you do?
- How do you do?

Sorry your brother can't be here,
Miss Carfax. His squadron's in readiness.

Beeswax Red were taking off
as we came in, sir.

It's too bad the way Operations
interfere with our modest pleasures!

- Perhaps he'll be back to join us.
- I hope so.

Pilot Officer Raynes will look after you.
Don't let him bore you with a lot of shop.

- Not likely, sir!
- No!

Bill, where's Baird? He ought to be here
helping us to entertain our guests.

- I don't know, sir. Batchy?
- He was squatting in the anteroom.

Got his head stuck
in one of the Sunday heavies.

Then dig him out. And tell him from me,
his presence would be acceptable.

Shall be done, sir.

- May I introduce my mother and father?
- How do you do?

How do you do?
It's good of you to let us come.

We enjoy entertaining, don't we, Falk?

We have to restrict it to relatives and
close friends owning to security reasons

and even that's got to stop now.

We've heard so much about you
from Dennis, Captain.

- Not much to my credit, I fear!
- Oh, yes, indeed. He says...

I mean, that is, he...

Have you got a family, sir?

About 2,000 at a guess,
including the two satellites.

What a nice way of putting it.

Come out from behind that barrage,
Septic.

Your presence is demanded
in the ladies' room.

You don't expect me to fall for that gag?

What gag, old man?
I'm not trying to be funny.

Perhaps you'll tell me
who is demanding my presence.

Well, actually, old man, it's no lesser
a person than Nadine Clinton.

Well, that's different then.
Why didn't you say it was she?

I don't know if I approve
of all this social stuff in wartime.

I'd talk to the Tiger about it,
if I were you.

You know I'll do no such thing.

- A man's entitled to his own opinions.
- Absolutely, old man.

Seems to be a flap on. There's
three sections of Beeswax up already.

I bet Barry's got his coat off
in the Ops Room.

Thinking rude thoughts
about our sherry drinking!

Now, stop talking shop,
you controller types.

I want a word
in Mrs Clinton's charming ear.

Look, I...

This is very sudden, Group Captain.

- I'm serious, my dear.
- It gets more and more flattering.

Don't make things more difficult.
I'm scared enough already.

You? Scared? I can't even frighten
my own tame Squadron Leader.

Look...
I want you to leave your bungalow.

What?

We believe the Jerries are going
to start bombing the fighter stations.

When that happens, they'll throw in
everything to try and wipe us out.

I don't want the responsibility
of having civilian women around.

I've been called many things in my time,
but "civilian woman"...

You must excuse my crude
service jargon, but you do understand?

Perfectly.
And you needn't have apologised.

And you needn't have got
so worked up about it all.

Thank you, my dear. I knew.

Because I'm not going.

Our shy pilot came like a bomb when
I told him Mrs Clinton was pining for him.

Oh. Oh, yes.

I didn't want you to miss our last Sunday
party with so many beautiful girls around.

You're wasting your talents in solitude.
I'll introduce you to some.

- Astonishing woman.
- Absolutely, sir.

Betty, I want to introduce you
to Pilot Officer Baird.

A newcomer to our ranks.
Miss Carfax.

- Hello.
- How do you do, Miss Carfax?

Being a VR, Pilot Officer Baird probably
has a wider range of conversation than us.

Someone give me a drink?

Tony, there's someone
I want you to meet.

- I suppose you're a Pimpernel?
- That's right.

- My brother's in Beeswax squadron.
- They're pretty busy.

Yes, he's up now.
I expect you wish you were too.

Indeed, I do.
That is... I didn't mean that...

You'd rather be flying than making
dull conversation with a strange girl?

- I didn't mean that at all, Miss Carfax.
- Yes, you did.

And I quite agree with you.
It must be wonderful.

There's nothing like it. Power and speed
and whole sky to yourself.

- But you've got a squadron, Bill.
- I've got a squadron, Peter. Thank you.

You pukka Cranwell-trained laddies,

you've got it all over us
when it comes to the plum jobs.

Sitting on my backside
is not my idea of a plum.

'Attention, everybody.
Pimpernels to readiness.'

- Hell!
- Batchy!

What a ghastly way
to drink good sherry!

I shall savour mine later
with proper respect.

And heaven help you, Peter,
if it's not there when I get back.

What about you? You're a Pimpernel.

Yes, but you see, my neck.
I'm not flying at present.

Oh, come on.
We can see them off, anyway.

Come on!

Come on! Come on!

How I wish I was a man at this moment.

Some people have all the luck.

- Let's go back and finish our drinks.
- Yes, let's.

You've never flown on operations yet.

- Who told you that?
- You did.

- I did?
- It's true, isn't it?

Yes. I was shooting a terrible line,
I'm afraid.

No, you weren't.

I guessed as much when I saw that look
in your eyes just now.

I remember my brother
when he first joined the squadron.

You must be
a very sympathetic kind of sister.

Oh, I don't know.

Being a useless female makes it easier
to understand how you feel.

Hardly describe you as useless,
Miss Carfax.

Useful enough to drive
an old ambulance about.

- Somebody swiped our drinks.
- That's easily remedied.

- You seem to be getting along fine.
- Miss Carfax is an understanding woman.

Yes, so I can see.

Now she's cut me out, I shall have
to seek solace with my ageing husband.

Let's see if I can tune in on him.
Should be about here.

'Pimpernel Leader, Sapper calling.
Patrol "C" for Charlie, Angels 1-8. Over.'

Pimpernel are off already.

'Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Pimpernel Leader answering.

"Understand point "C" for Charlie.
Angels 1-8. Out.'

Oh, hello, Peter.

Sorry to drag you away
from your Sabbath pleasures.

That's all right, sir.

Rotten luck,
Bill Ponsford buying it like that.

Yes. Difficult man to replace.

- Impossible, I should say.
- Well, that's up to you, Peter.

You're going to take over Pimpernel.

Me, sir?
But I've no operational experience.

You have other experience
just as valuable.

What about the other pilots?

They respect you as a person
and that's what matters most.

But surely Batchy...

Let Batchy lead until you find your feet.
I want to keep my team together.

- I don't know what to say.
- Then don't say it.

I take it you're happy about handing
over the Ops Room to Barry Clinton?

- Yes, sir. He's first-class now.
- Good. He'll need to be.

If our guess is right
about the next few weeks.

- Strewth!
- Had any luck, sir?

No, not even one.
There were thousands of blighters.

- Nearly got bounced myself.
- Thank heavens you weren't, sir.

Don't thank heaven, Wailes.
Thank Squadron Leader Moon.

- Strewth.
- Moths.

- Losing my grip, Skipper.
- Baloney.

Every time I think of you flying
as my Red Two, I go into a stall.

Forget it. You're teaching me a lot.

Get inside and get some sleep
or you'll lose your beauty.

- What you reckon they're doing up there?
- Haven't you heard?

We're getting so short of aircraft,
they're building a platform,

so's old man Tiger hisself
can stand up there

and punch the Jerry pilots
in the nose as they fly past.

- Goon.
- Not perishing likely.

One of us poor ruddy erks has got
to sit up there like a broody crow

and count the Jerry bombs
as they drop on the airfield.

Cor! Chase me round the hangar!

Being Senior Controller hasn't
improved your manners, darling.

Gobble your food like that, you'll get
hiccups in a raid. We shall lose the war.

Sorry. Group seems to think
I live on the end of that phone.

I must get
the Emergency Ops Room tested.

- Are the boys flying?
- One section of Beeswax.

I must turn on the light.

Blast! Another bulb's gone.
This war's getting expensive.

Now don't you worry, darling.
The government pays.

Bless you.

- Name your poison, Septic.
- I'm in the chair.

Good evening, Mr Moon, Mr Salter, sir.

Good evening, Aunt Tabitha.
I trust we find you well.

I can't complain.
Not for one of my age.

- You'll be taking your usual?
- Yes, I will.

- Bitter?
- Yes, please.

- What about this gentleman?
- This is Pilot Officer Baird.

"Septic" to his intimates.
What are you drinking, Septic?

Thank you, sir.
Do you think I could have a Drambuie?

- I'm sure you could.
- I've one bottle. For Mr Mortimer.

I don't think Mr Mortimer will be wanting
Drambuie any more, Aunt Tabitha.

Oh. You can never be sure, though,
can you, sir?

I'll keep it on one side
all the same, sir.

Just in case Mr Mortimer calls in.

- You were lucky to get it back, Peter.
- Take more than that to knock out Daisy.

I'm not so worried about the aircraft.

We can go after them in Tiger Moths
armed with hand grenades.

It's the pilots we need so desperately.

The OTUs are turning out good stuff, sir.
The last three VRs I had are shaping well.

But it's not enough. The output
isn't making up for the wastage.

You're six short, Beeswax are four
and the Spitfire boys are almost as bad.

- Then what's the answer?
- Make better use of what we've got.

The MO says that Baird will be fit
for operations in a couple of days.

That'll give you one more.

Nice work.

Now, he had an excellent report
from his OTU.

At first I wanted to kick him
in the backside.

Most of us did. Too much
of the walking textbook about him.

You ever owned an Aberdeen terrier, sir?

I can't say I have.
I don't like small dogs.

I had one once.
Obstinate, independent little hound.

Always ready to answer back
but full of guts.

Baird reminds me of him.
They even look alike.

I've got an odd soft spot
for that awkward cuss.

The occasion demanded
our last bottle of port.

- You shouldn't be wasting it on me.
- Speak for yourself, Septic. Hear, hear!

I've been trying to prise that bottle
for the six months.

I raises my glass
and looks toward you, Septic.

May your deeds with Pimpernel squadron
resound through the halls of fame.

To Septic and the Pimpernels.

Come on, Septic, speech.

- I'm no hand at that sort of thing.
- No funking, Septic.

- You should all have your heads tested.
- Shame!

I mean that.

It makes no sort of sense.

First of all,
I plough up your front garden.

Then I make an ass of myself
all over the station.

Barry has to put up with my stupidity
in his Ops Room and now...

Now you fill me up with beer
and crack open your best bottle of port.

I don't know what you're trying
to do to me, but it feels pretty good.

You're being launched, Septic.

I'm only sorry the housekeeping money
didn't run to champagne.

Before you celebrate too much,
you haven't got rid of me yet.

There's still a couple days to go.

It's nine o'clock. Time for the news.

Feeling happy now, Septic?

Never knew the world could feel so good.

It's heaven occasionally to stop worrying.

Just sit back
and accept it all as it comes.

I think sometimes a little laziness
is quite a good thing.

That sounds like
very immoral advice to me.

Does it? It's true, all the same.

I'm feeling rather pleased with myself.

I'll give you credit for most things,

but this time Mother Nature
does deserve a small share.

- You were going to be a doctor?
- I still hope I will be.

Yes, of course. What do you want to be,
a GP or a surgeon?

Neither. My idea was to specialise.
Ear, throat and nose probably.

I see. Yes, I think you'd make
a good specialist.

Thanks.
But what makes you say that?

To begin with you're the painstaking type,
I should think,

who comes to very clear
and precise conclusions about things.

- All good doctors need to do that.
- But you wouldn't be so good as a GP.

Indeed. Why not?

There you go.
Quite relentless, aren't you?

I just have a feeling you'd be a bit
too determined, if you know what I mean.

- No bedside manner?
- Yes, if you like.

Anyway, it's much more comfortable
to be a specialist.

Who wants to be dragged out of bed
at all hours?

- Is that more of your immoral advice?
- Very wicked, aren't I?

- I don't think so.
- Oh?

- Betty?
- Yes?

Would you come out with me
one evening?

Of course I would. I'd love to.

Alone, I mean?

Darling old Septic, I don't go around
chained to a chaperone, you know.

We could go to Maidstone
and have dinner. Just the two of us.

Oh, I'd adore that. When?

- Well, not just for a bit maybe.
- Oh. Why not?

I'll need to settle down
with the squadron first.

Oh, of course.
Stupid of me not to realise.

You're a grand girl, Betty.

Hostile 7-6.100 aircraft. 16,000.

Fighter 1-6-1.
"Q" Queenie, 8-7-4-0. Southeast.

Looks as though things are boiling up.

Never a dull moment. A gay life.
And by the look of things, a short one.

- Serial 7-6.
- Here we go, boys.

Two squadrons.
Patrol point "B" for beer at 15,000ft.

Get Beeswax and Nutmeg
into the air, Septic.

Beeswax dispersal? Good. Stand by.

Nutmeg dispersal? Good.

Order for both squadrons. Serial 76.

Both squadrons patrol point "B" for beer
at Angels 1-5.

Understood, Nutmeg?
Understood, Beeswax?

Now bring Pimpernel to readiness.

Attention, everybody.
Operations Room calling.

Pimpernels to come to readiness.

I repeat, Pimpernels to come
to readiness. That is all.

"S" Sugar. 2-6-2-0. West.

12 Spitfires taking off.

Initial letter, "P" for Peter.

Ops Room, please.

Controller? Hello, Barry.
Small speaking.

Anything special?

I don't want to bother you, but tip me off,
if it looks like developing our way.

OK, sir.

Tiger's getting restless.

This promises to be quite a party.

We've time for a cigarette
before the fun begins.

It'll take Nutmeg and Beeswax
10.5 minutes to reach their objective.

Two squadrons of Hurricanes
against 200 Jerries.

Doesn't make much sense, does it?

Hostile 1-5-0.
"Q" Queenie, 9-3-1-0...

- Haven't wasted much time.
- I gathered the flap was pretty fierce.

Serial 9-3.1320 Squadron.

Patrol Ashford at 18,000ft.

Get Pimpernel into the air, Septic.

Pimpernel dispersal? Squadron scramble.
Ashford Angels 1-8.

Group will place Raid 1-2-4 on our plate.

I'll look after them with Nutmeg
and Beeswax if you'll take on Pimpernel.

That means we've got
all our squadrons airborne at once.

Presumably, Group know what they're
doing. Put Raid 1-2-4 on the screen.

Hello, Beeswax and Nutmeg Leaders.

Beeswax and Nutmeg Leaders,
Sapper calling.

Vector 1-5-0, 1-5-0.

100 bandits are approaching you
from the east.

From the east. Angels 1-8.
Up to Angels 1-8. Over.

'12 Hurricanes
taking off. Initial letter "U" for uncle.'

Three minutes dead.
It's pretty hot, even for Pimpernel.

Practice Flight
want to do an air test, sir.

Definitely no. Have the red light on.
We got to concentrate.

Sorry, old boy, no joy.
Try again in a week's time.

- Your turn already?
- Skip while the going's good.

Serial 9-6.1320 Squadron.

Intercept Raid 1-2-7.

This looks like the biggest show yet.

Stick Raid 1-2-7
on the screen, please.

'Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Beeswax Leader calling. Tally-ho. Out.'

That's Beeswax and Nutmeg
engaged, anyway.

Hello, Pimpernel Leader,
Pimpernel Leader. Vector 2-1-0.

100 bandits to the south.
Over.

Hello, Sapper, Sapper. Pimpernel Leader
answering. Understood. Out.

'Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Pimpernel Leader calling. Tally-ho. Over.'

Hello, Pimpernel Leader.
Sapper answering.

Watch out for hawks. Out.

Well done, Pimpernel.
Carve 'em up, carve 'em up!

That's all three squadrons engaged.
Hm, where do we go from here?

Take a look at Raid 1-3-2.

They hold that course much longer,
they'll drop in for a drink. Sinister.

Let's see what Group thinks.

Hello, Neethley. Yes, I'm watching it.

Hornchurch is trying to intercept
Raid 1-3-2 now, but I'm not too hopeful.

I'm trying to send reinforcements to you.
Meantime, do whatever you can.

Good luck. Nice to have known you.

Thank you very much, sir.

Seems we're on our own now.

Get the Tiger on the blower, Bonzo.

Guns, show what you can do.
Take the Spiders out of your barrels.

Station Commander, please.

'Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Nutmeg Blue Two calling.

'Can I come and rearm? Over.'

Hello, Nutmeg Blue Two,
Sapper answering.

- You may not come home yet. Out.
- Tiger on the phone, sir.

I see. That's what I expected.

Certainly, anything that flies.
Better be quick!

Attention, everybody.
Operations calling.

Every available pilot,
report to Practice Flight immediately.

Take off independently
and patrol base at Angels 1-2, 1-2.

Officer in charge of Practice Flight to
put every possible aircraft into the air.

This message to be treated as urgent.
That is all.

It's futile.
They'll never make the height in time.

They won't find much
on the ground to bomb.

Hostile 3-8,
"M" Mother, 1-5-0-2.

Attention, everybody.
Operations calling.

"Action stations, action stations.'

Hello there, partner.
Come up where I can see you, will you?

Five assorted aircraft all taking off,
all shapes and sizes.

Hostile 1-3-2, "Q" Queenie, 9-0-8-0.

Battle bowlers, everybody.

Close the blast-proof doors.

Attention, everybody.
Attention, everybody. Operations calling.

All personnel not engaged
on operational duties take cover.

'Take cover.'

'Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Pimpernel Leader. Shall not be home yet.

'Have dealt with bandits,
but am engaging hawks. Over.'

Hello, Pimpernel Leader. Sapper
answering. Message understood. Out.

Just our luck to be caught with
both pairs of trousers at the cleaner's.

Guns, see that your boys don't poop off
at any of our lads coming home.

All right. Leave it to us.

'Hello, Sapper.
Hello, Sapper. Septic calling.

'I am airborne. Have you any instructions
for me? Over to Sapper. Over.'

Hello, Septic! Hello, Septic!
Sapper answering.

Make Angels as fast as you can! Over!

Hello, Sapper. Hello, Sapper.
Septic answering.

Receiving you loud and clear.

Strength nine. Listening out.

Hello, Sapper. Septic calling.
Tally-ho, tally-ho!

Bandits ahead and above me!

Here I come!

25 enemy bombers
approaching from the southeast.

"Height about 10,000ft.
They look like JU 88s to me.'

This is where we learn to take it.

Order the squadrons
not to land back at base.

Here, give it to me!

Some blithering idiot's left
his transmitter on!

Enemy aircraft are now
bombing the aerodrome.

You're telling us!

Atta boy! Let him have it, chum!

Enemy aircraft being attacked
by fighters!

Leave me alone.
I've got a job of work to do!

Perishing fool!
Who do you think you are, Joan of Arc?

Perishing hangar's on fire!

Test all the lines, Bonzo.

- Sergeant?
- Yes, sir?

- What casualties?
- No one killed, sir.

A RT operator copped a nasty one.
One of the girls doesn't seem too good.

We're doing the best we can for them.

- They'll have a rescue squad here soon.
- Yes, sir.

I'm sure there's one that didn't go off.

Well, let's hope it's a dud.

- All the lines are dead.
- That settles it. I'm going to evacuate.

- Sergeant, get the crew out of here.
- Yes, sir.

The emergency option
should be functioning by now.

Can't be done, sir. The doors are
jammed or blocked with rubble.

Hell. We shall just have to stay here
and wait for the bomb to go off.

I hope to God Nadine got into the dugout.

Tea, sir?
It's a bit gritty, I'm afraid, sir.

Foster, that's an inspiration.

- Remind me to have you promoted.
- Yes, sir.

Did you ever see anything like it?

Never mind, duck. Wasn't really
so much of a little house, was it?

The old place is pockmarked.

Yes. Trust old Jerry to plaster everything
while our backs are turned.

I'm glad I wasn't here...

They didn't have it their way.
We put up an odds-and-sods section.

- Any joy?
- One Messerschmitt 110.

It fell outside the perimeter.
And a couple of probables.

What about you chaps?

About 50 Dorniers.
We came in above and behind them.

- Seven went down.
- All confirmed?

Absolutely, old boy.
I followed each one down personally.

Have a heart! I've got to fill in a claim.

You make it seven, old boy.

After that, a swarm of ME 109s came out
of the sun at us and things got hectic.

- Any casualties?
- Yes. Three unaccounted for so far.

Matthews might've got down
at Hawkinge. What happened here?

We're pretty lucky. One shelter hit,
unfortunately. The Ops Room bought it.

- Barry Clinton?
- They all got out alive.

- Where's this ME 1107
- Behind the Royal Lion.

- Come on, chaps, into the truck!
- Hey! Damn it! I've got to get a report!

- Hello, Baird.
- Hello.

- Ever seen one of these before?
- Oh, quite a few.

- It was me who shot down this bird.
- You, was it?

- I didn't know you were flying ops.
- I got caught up in a scramble.

I see. Nice work anyway.

Erm... do you think I might have
a wee bit, just for a souvenir?

You'll get me shot!
It's against regulations.

Well, just something
for the squadron's gallery.

Oh, well, as it's your first.
I'll look the other way.

How about a nice little altimeter?

- What a prize!
- Wotcher, Septic!

Pinching enemy property? I'm surprised
at you, Plumber, encouraging the lad.

Well, why not? He shot it down.

- What? You never!
- What a horrible lie!

I went up from the practice flight.
I was lucky.

Well, I'll be transmogrified!
Our own Septic's got himself a Jerry!

Hooray!

Let's do something about this, chaps.
Chair the victor!

Come on, you types!

Hey! Put that tail fin down!

A brave aviator!

Come on!

- Choose your site, Septic.
- The place of honour.

Let's shift the derogatory finger.
Give us a hand.

Baird.

Come in here a moment, will you?

Shut the door.

I've just been inspecting my Kill, sir.

- I didn't call you to congratulate you.
- I know that, sir.

You're still a member of this squadron.

Of course, sir. That's why I was hanging
my piece of 110 on the wall, sir.

Stop nattering about that 110!

It's been done before, you know.

You come bursting in here, grinning
over your face. Report to Intelligence?

In the excitement,
I must have forgotten.

This is an operational squadron,
not a flying circus.

No time for personal jamborees.
We've a job to do.

I realise that, sir.

Perhaps you also realise that you left
your radio on transmit in the air.

- I did, sir?
- Yes, you.

The textbook pilot
who knows all the answers.

You jammed the channel,

so Operations couldn't speak
to any pilot on your frequency.

Pilots returning from a gruelling action,
shot up, short of juice.

Not even knowing that their base
had been bombed.

How did you know it was me, sir?

Because your aircraft was the only one in
Practice Flight with a serviceable radio.

Thank God those that got back
landed safely.

Otherwise I'd run you off the station
with my own hands.

Let's face it, Baird. You may know
the training manuals backwards by heart.

But until you've had operational
experience, you aren't worth your rations.

- It shan't happen again, sir.
- Once is too often!

I will not have this squadron
made a laughing stock.

For that reason, your black won't
be published outside these walls.

That is all.

Well, go on.
Go and hang your trophy on the wall.

What ails you, Septic?
You look a trifle parboiled.

- Nothing. I'd rather not discuss it.
- OK, old man, if that's the way you feel.

- Where's your trophy?
- Stick it up. It's squadron property.

We can't have private looting, Septic.

Listen, chaps. I made a mistake.

I haven't had much experience yet,
you see, and, well, I've been a mutt.

Shame!

That 110, I'm not so sure now.
Perhaps it wasn't mine after all.

- What's that?
- Come off it.

- What's the big idea?
- This modesty is unbecoming.

'Will Pilot Officer Baird report

'to the Station Commander immediately?'

- What you been up to, Septic?
- Put some blotting paper in your trousers!

I shall decide whether you're going
to be any use to us

after I've had a talk
with your squadron commander.

Meanwhile,
I hope you've learned a lesson, Baird.

Discipline and procedure are
just as important as courage and skill.

Every man and woman
on this station has a part to play

and a strict set of rules to play it by.

We don't take kindly to people
who break the team's rules.

The others are only trying
to help you do your job,

and it's up to you to help them do theirs.

Yes, sir.

All right. You can go.

Baird, come here.

Have a cigarette.

Well, go on.

Thank you, sir.

Sit down.

I called you back because...

You weren't the only one
who let his personal feelings

get the better
of his service training today.

- I was just as guilty myself.
- You, sir?

Yes, I lost my temper
and grabbed hold of a Lewis gun

and started pooping off
at the Jerry planes.

A very natural thing to do, sir.

Natural, perhaps, Baird,
but wrong all the same.

I'm a Station Commander,
not an ack-ack gunner.

But there's nobody here
to tear me off a strip. That's not fair.

- But you're the Station Commander, sir.
- Exactly.

That's what makes it
all the more inexcusable.

You didn't see me when you were running
to the practice flight, did you?

No, sir.

I was racing for the last Hurricane,
but I stopped and let you win.

You let me win, sir?

You don't imagine
I couldn't have beaten you?

- I was a good sprinter at school, sir.
- We can settle that.

We'll have a race, 220 yards flat
in full flying kit. That'll show you!

All right, sir. Now, sir?

No, not now. I need a drink.

I daresay you're feeling a bit dry too.
But we'll fix a date for that race.

- Don't forget to remind me.
- I won't, sir.

- Excuse me.
- Anything to oblige, old boy.

Peter Moon was asking for you
just now.

Squadron Leader Moon?
Where is he?

He's over there by the bar
nattering to the Tiger.

Thanks.

It's for you to decide, sir,
but that's what I strongly recommend.

Very well, Peter.

I didn't intend to take any action,
but if that's the way you want it, I will.

There you are, Baird.
I've been looking for you high and low.

You're flying as my Yellow Two tomorrow.
Readiness first light.

She must've dived in there
to take cover.

We heaves her out and tidies her up
and back come the ruddy Jerries.

We have to start all over again.

Another couple of days of this

and there won't be any perishing station
left to tidy.

- Got a fag?
- No.

I wrote to your wife, so I expect
she'll be coming to see you in hospital.

All you've got to do
is to get fit as quickly as you can.

If there's anything you want,
you let me know, will you? Good luck.

- Is that the lot now?
- Yes.

- Seen anything of Septic?
- He's giving me dinner at Maidstone.

- Oh, quite an occasion.
- Isn't it?

I'm very thrilled about it.

It's certainly an achievement.
So long, my dear.

Bye.

Good afternoon.
And how's our lady of the lamp?

If you're referring to the Clinton
bungalow beacon, that's under control.

I was referring to your activities
amongst our sick and wounded.

- You look tired.
- Aren't we all?

It's a marvel to me how those boys
go up time after time.

No proper rest. Few comforts left.

- Well, how do you manage?
- Me? Oh, that's quite different.

It isn't, you know. We keep going
because, well, we've got to keep going.

Isn't that it?

Yes, I suppose so.

I'm a bit worried about Barry.
He's feeling the strain badly.

Well, I was just on my way
down to Emergency Ops.

He worries so dreadfully.

He seems to take responsibility
for every single casualty.

- I'll talk some sense into him.
- Thank you.

So long, my dear.

- Bored with her, Dusty?
- It's not that. I want to get some sleep.

- Tell us about your love life, Septic.
- That'll put us all to sleep.

He's a dark horse. Aren't you, Septic?

I don't have to titivate my senses
with paper substitutes.

- Who is she, Septic?
- Is she a braw Scots lassie?

- Tell us a real bedtime story, Septic.
- Come on. Don't be bashful.

Since you all take
such a kindly interest in my affairs,

I may as well tell you I've got a date

with a very beautiful girl in Maidstone
this evening.

Well, blow me down!

Good old Septic!
A very parfait gentle knight!

Are you ready
for a game of chess, sir?

I don't mind if I do.
Provided you let me win for once.

Fan me! Five sorties and then chess?

Your mother might not have known it,
but she gave birth to a wonder child.

What's the form, Barry?

Nothing much on the table, sir.

I don't like it.

Why not? We could all do
with a bit of a rest, couldn't we?

It's unlike Jerry to lay off, sir,
when he's got us rocking.

Sufficient unto the day. You worry
too much, Barry. You're losing weight.

It's the smell of a boot, sir.
Interferes with my digestion.

Ah, here they come.

"H" for hostile 7-5.
"S" for sugar 3-9-1-9.

12 aircraft. No height.

"H" for hostile 7-6, 3-0-0-6.

Get Pimpernel off, Bonzo.

Six aircrafts is all they can muster, sir.
They've done 49 sorties today already.

Well, it's getting late. It may fizzle out.

I'll wait and see how it develops.

Hello. Pimpernel dispersal?

Patrol Dover, Angels 1-8.
Dover, Angels 1-8.

Don't forget, Septic,
you're flying as my Black Two.

Here we go again.

Poor perishers.

Haven't you got
that ruddy blower working yet?

Hello, Pimpernel Leader,
Pimpernel Leader. Sapper calling.

Make Angels
as quickly as you can.

Bandits approaching
from the southeast. Over.

'OK, Sapper.
What Angels are bandits? Over.'

Don't know.
Can't see them from here. Over.

You funny little man!
That'll cost you a drink. Out.

Close up, Black Two. I'm going to climb.
Keep your eyes skinned.

"H" hostile 7-6. "R" Robert...

Hello, Pimpernel Leader,
Pimpernel Leader. Sapper calling.

Watch out for bandits
above and behind you.

'Above and behind. Over.'

Hello, Sapper.
Pimpernel Leader answering. OK. Out.

Hello, Leader. Black Two calling.
109s above at four o'clock. Over.

OK, Black Two. I can see them.
Prepare to break.

No, hold it. They're Spitties. Over.

Hello, Pimpernel Leader,
Pimpernel Leader. Sapper calling.

Bandits ahead of you. Ahead of you.

Will cross from starboard to port.

'Starboard to port. Over.'

Hello, Sapper. Pimpernel Leader
answering. I see them. Tally-ho! Tally-ho!

Hello, chaps. Leader calling. Prepare
to break. Line astern. Line astern.

'Gol'

Nice work, Septic.

Your bird, sir.

Sounds as if Septic had winged one, sir.

Yes. Good boy.

"H" for hostile 7-6.
"R" Robert 7-2-6-2.

Now, how the hell did that get...?
It puts them up sun now, sir, to our boys.

Hello, Pimpernel Leader,
Pimpernel Leader. Sapper calling.

Hawks in the sun. Hawks in the sun.

Closing in on you rapidly
from the southwest. Over.

Watch your tail, Leader!

Hello, Septic. Hello, Septic,
Are you all right? Over.

Hello, Leader. Septic answering.

Yes, I'm all right.

Trouble is... can't open hood.

Chin up, Septic.
You don't sound too good.

Better park down on Manston.

I'll lead you down.
Try and keep height. Over.

Hello, Leader. Hello, Leader.

Septic answering.

Your message received and understood.

See if you can get their position.
Maybe we can help them.

Hello, Pimpernel Leader,
Pimpernel Leader. Sapper calling.

Over to button "B," button "B".
Transmit for fix. Over.

Hello, Sapper. Pimpernel Leader
answering. I will transmit for fix.

Keep channel free for me to assist
Black Two on to Manston. Over.

OK, OK. Over.

Tell the DF Stations
to concentrate on Pimpernel Leader.

Get through to Manston. Tell them
to have the ambulance on the top line.

All stations concentrate
on Pimpernel Leader, button "B".

- Has Squadron Leader Clinton left yet?
- Not yet, ma'am.

- Is the squadron still up?
- I believe so, ma'am.

That means some of the stragglers
will be landing in the dark. I must hurry.

- Good night.
- Good night.

'Hello, Sapper, Sapper.
Pimpernel Red One calling.

"We've disengaged
and are returning to base. Over.'

Hello, Pimpernel Red One, Red One.
OK, OK.

Have you seen Leader
or Black Two? Over.

'Hello, Sapper. Red One answering.

"Not for some time.
Anything I can do? Over.'

Hello, Red One, Red One.
Sapper answering.

We are trying to help them home. Please
keep RT silence unless urgent. Over.

Hello, Sapper.
OK. Absolutely. Out.

0-7-0.

- 0-6-0.
- 0-9-5.

Pimpernel Leader. "R" Robert 8-0-7-4.

Get all the pilots you can on Fighter 6-2.

Well, they ought to make Manston
if he's got height enough.

Who was it said that
waiting was the worst part of war?

I don't know.

'Hello, Septic. Peter Moon here.

'Try and make some height, old man.
Try and make some height. Over.'

'Hello, Leader. Septic answering.

'Doing my best. No power.

'Can't seem to get her nose.'

He sounds in a bad way, sir.

Hope he remembers
to switch over to receive.

He will. He's learned that lesson.

- Hello. Where are you off to?
- The bungalow.

- Some boys are still airborne.
- Is Septic with them?

Very probably I should think.

I'm dashing home to change.
I got held up at the hospital.

I don't want to be late
for our first assignment.

You'd better hurry then.

- Yes, bye. Be seeing you.
- Bye.

'Hello, Sapper. Hello, Sapper.

'Elfin One calling. Elfin One calling.

"Are you receiving me?
Are you receiving me?

'Elfin One over to Sapper. Over.'

That was his call sign
when he first came in to Neethley.

'Hello, Sapper.

'Septic calling.

'Septic calling.

'Please...

'...tell the Tiger...

'...our race will have to be
postponed...

'... indefinitely.

'Out.'

Hello, Septic. Hello, Septic.

This is the Tiger answering.

Your message received and understood.

Out.