The car rumbled to a halt in the driveway outside 11 Group Headquarters at RAF Uxbridge. Hillingdon House, which had become RAF Uxbridge, was a rambling, old mansion dating back in parts to the eighteenth century. It was here that Air Vice Marshall Keith Park, a tall, craggy New Zealander, was overseeing the Royal Air Force’s struggle in the Battle of Britain.
“It always amuses me, my dear, to recall that this estate was built by a German soldier. The Duke of Schamberg, for it was he, served under William of Orange. He got a knighthood in the Battle of the Boyne, if I recall correctly, and—”
“Yes, Winston, you told me all this the last night. Now, do you not think we should get out of the car?”
“Yes, dear.” The Prime Minister banged on the window and his young male secretary, who had already exited the front seat, opened the door. Struggling with his cane and his cigar, the PM finally made it safely onto the gravel in front of the main door. Keith Park was already waiting, with a small group of officers, and brisk greetings and introductions were exchanged.
“Right, gentlemen and Mrs Churchill, I think you may recall the way, but best follow me.” Park led the party through the grounds, eventually arriving amongst some bushes at a small door, which appeared to be an entrance to nowhere. One of Park’s officers opened the door and led the way down a long and steep flight of stairs. They went down two levels then along a corridor with several doors. Park assembled the party outside one of them. “Alright, Mrs Churchill? And you, sir?”
“Yes, Park. I’m fine. Fit as a fiddle, you know.” A puff of cigar smoke followed his exclamation.
“May I remind you, Prime Minister, that our air conditioning can’t cope with cigarette or cigar smoke.”
Winston Churchill pouted back at Park for a moment before handing his cigar to his secretary. “Put it out and keep it safe, please, Henry.”
Henry extinguished the cigar unhappily and placed the soggy item in his coat pocket.
“Thank you, sir.” Park opened the door and they entered the control room or, as it was more commonly called now by the officers, the Battle of Britain Ops Room. A large room, two floors high, revealed itself to them. In the middle of the room was what at first looked to be a large, brown table, but which on second viewing emerged as a map of southern England, the Channel and the northern coast of Europe. Several WAAFs stood around the map or plotting table holding wooden poles with a block at the end, with which they could manoeuvre small models representing squadrons of aircraft around the table. There were seats positioned above the table and stairs to individual control rooms behind curved and tinted-glass windows.
The room was a hub of relentless activity.
“I guess that we are going to have a rather busy day, Prime Minister, Mrs Churchill. Our intelligence sources suggest that Herr Hitler may be at the end of his tether. If the Germans are to launch their invasion, which we know they are fully prepared for, they would be unwise to wait much longer before the autumnal weather really sets in. The cloud and rain of the last few days seem to have cleared for the moment and I thought when I awoke and saw the sun shining that today might be a big one. Now, perhaps I can explain what everyone is doing.”
Park took his guests around the room, introducing them to people and asking them to describe their duties to the Prime Minister and his wife. Churchill asked an attractive, young WAAF at the plotting table what the model she had just placed on the map represented. “That’s the Kosciuszko Squadron, sir. Flying out of RAF Northolt.”