Sic Itur ad Astra

Sic Itur ad Astra
(Thus is the Way to the Stars)

Jake banked the aircraft hard right and waited for the others to line up, fanned out to the right and left behind him, in ‘V’ formation. He feathered the throttle, anxious that he not draw away from the much slower aeroplanes following. He had the cherished position at the point of the arrow, flying the fighter plane that historians considered was the engineering marvel that had done most to win the battle.

The aeroplane he was flying had actually seen service in 1940, not a celebrated example (most of those had been shot down in the battle) but a genuine survivor which had been lovingly preserved and was now the proud leader of ‘The Battle of Britain Flight’. Since he was a small boy, Jake had dreamed of this day, ardently ambitious to be chosen to lead one of the annual memorial celebrations. This was even better than the dream for he had been given the opportunity to take his place at a significant anniversary, the seventieth.

Jake’s grandfather had fought in the battle, not a ‘big gun’ perhaps but one of the few expert fighter pilots, and thus still held in the highest esteem. Jake had been named for his grandfather’s best friend, a hero of the battle who had lost his life in service to his country in August 1940. Jake smiled to himself, certain that his grandfather would have been immensely proud.

As he flew, Jake thought about the young men, those whose spirit had been ‘borne in a brave heart.’ Many had perished on both sides and, an airman to his core, he admired them all. He’d been raised on stories of ‘dogfights’ at his grandfather’s knee and relished the names as though they’d been personal friends. Douglas Bader, Robert Stanford-Tuck, Brian Carbury, Sailor Malan and Archie McKellar; Galland, Wick, Schöpfel and Horst Tietzen. So many there were and yet, in the context of the war as a whole, so few. He imagined them looking over him and looking out for him, like ghostly ‘wingmen’.

‘The Flight’ was now over the centre of London, low enough for Jake almost to be able to make out individual people who lined the streets. He held the display team on a south-western course and led them in a straight line, over ‘The Square’, and then flew a hundred metres above the red profile of the Mall. As he passed over the balcony of Buckingham Palace, he waggled his wings in salute to the Royal Family and their military and political guests.

His moment of glory was past – flying at 200 klicks, the triumphal procession over the Mall had lasted less than two seconds but it had been an honour not really measurable in mundane time. It was the culmination not only of his own life but of that of his father and grandfather before him.

He was utterly fulfilled; his family had done their duty to the cause and he had been privileged to be allowed to make this public tribute to the sacrifice of all those flyers of long ago.

With a sigh of deep contentment, Jake signalled a ‘thumbs up’ to the pilots in the other aeroplanes. Freed now from the need to limit his speed, he gunned the engine to full throttle, gained height quickly and banked the plane into a northward direction.

As always, she answered the controls smoothly and Jake’s Messerschmitt Bf 109 sped homeward, back to the Luftwaffemuseum in Entenfurt where ‘Die Luftschlacht um England Flug’ had its permanent base.