The Talbot Files, Part III: The General's Fast Asleep
10 June 1940
0830 hours
Air Ministry, London
The orderly’s voice boomed through the waiting room: “Flying Officer Talbot, Air Chief Marshal Newall will see you now.” Talbot stood and walked over to the double doors as the orderly stepped inside and announced, “Flying Officer Talbot, sir,” then stepped aside to allow Talbot to pass, closing the doors behind him.
Talbot marched up to the desk and saluted. “Flying Officer Geoffrey Talbot reporting as ordered, sir.”
Air Chief Marshal Newall stood and returned the salute, then gestured at the chair and instructed Talbot to have a seat; sitting down himself, he opened the meeting. “Mister Talbot, I’ve read your account of the operation on the 29th,” he said, raising a dossier folder and putting it back down, “and I must say I was rather impressed. That was quite a feat, downing a Messerschmitt in a Lysander.”
Talbot folded his hands in his lap and glanced down sheepishly. “I reckon I just got lucky, sir.”
“Luck seems to follow you, Talbot. Your file says you survived a scrape last winter on a ferry flight in an unarmed Hurricane, outmaneuvered two Messerschmitts until they disengaged with low fuel.”
Talbot nervously grasped at his hat. “Hurricane is a decent aeroplane. That helped me out some.”
Newall, not sure what to make of the young pilot’s atypical modesty, continued. “Luck or not, your victory was a remarkable bit of flying, not to mention pulling a wounded man from a burning aircraft afterwards. Squadron Leader Fenton has recommended you for a DFC and an AFC, and Air Vice Marshal Park and I have endorsed this recommendation. I understand that the Secretary of State for Air is in the process of approving it, so you should be gazetted in the next few days. You might also like to know that Flying Officer Warren is to be awarded a posthumous DFC.”
“Thank you, sir. I can’t speak on their behalf, but I think Johnnie’s, I mean, Flying Officer Warren’s family might find some comfort that he died as a hero.”
Newall leaned forward. “What about you, Talbot? You’re getting a medal, someone in your position should be elated. You must have something to say.”
Talbot shifted uneasily in his seat. “To be honest, sir, I can’t help but feeling some responsibility for Johnnie’s death. I’m getting over it, but I really don’t feel like celebrating winning a medal with that hanging over my head. If it’s all the same, sir, I’d rather not discuss the matter further.”
“Fair enough, young man,” said Newall, leaning back, “we’ll consider the matter closed. Now, moving on to why I brought you here…given your flying record and your skills with motors and driving, I believe you may be suited for a special outfit that Mister Churchill and I have put together.” Newall handed a dossier to Talbot, who opened it and started flipping through the pages as Newall continued speaking. “Officially, this outfit is called 319 Squadron, unofficially it is the Excalibur Squadron. Excalibur Squadron is an international outfit: British, the Commonwealth and Empire, Americans, Poles, even German refugees. All volunteers.”
“What exactly is so special about that?”
“This squadron isn’t just a fighter squadron. Its members are trained to carry out special missions behind enemy lines. Unlike regular Commandos, their flight training gives them enormous flexibility when it comes to inserting and extracting them from a mission. In that dossier there, there’s a description of an operation to rescue a Polish general last September; Excalibur Squadron freed him from a German prison and stole a Ju 52 to escape.”
“It does sound rather interesting, sir.”
“I understand this is a lot for you to consider, so I don’t expect your answer right now. Why don’t you take a week to deliberate on this, and I’ll see you here same time next Monday. I’ve already forwarded your dossier to the squadron commander; he has no objections to you joining the squadron, so it’s all down to what you want to do.”
0830 hours
Air Ministry, London
The orderly’s voice boomed through the waiting room: “Flying Officer Talbot, Air Chief Marshal Newall will see you now.” Talbot stood and walked over to the double doors as the orderly stepped inside and announced, “Flying Officer Talbot, sir,” then stepped aside to allow Talbot to pass, closing the doors behind him.
Talbot marched up to the desk and saluted. “Flying Officer Geoffrey Talbot reporting as ordered, sir.”
Air Chief Marshal Newall stood and returned the salute, then gestured at the chair and instructed Talbot to have a seat; sitting down himself, he opened the meeting. “Mister Talbot, I’ve read your account of the operation on the 29th,” he said, raising a dossier folder and putting it back down, “and I must say I was rather impressed. That was quite a feat, downing a Messerschmitt in a Lysander.”
Talbot folded his hands in his lap and glanced down sheepishly. “I reckon I just got lucky, sir.”
“Luck seems to follow you, Talbot. Your file says you survived a scrape last winter on a ferry flight in an unarmed Hurricane, outmaneuvered two Messerschmitts until they disengaged with low fuel.”
Talbot nervously grasped at his hat. “Hurricane is a decent aeroplane. That helped me out some.”
Newall, not sure what to make of the young pilot’s atypical modesty, continued. “Luck or not, your victory was a remarkable bit of flying, not to mention pulling a wounded man from a burning aircraft afterwards. Squadron Leader Fenton has recommended you for a DFC and an AFC, and Air Vice Marshal Park and I have endorsed this recommendation. I understand that the Secretary of State for Air is in the process of approving it, so you should be gazetted in the next few days. You might also like to know that Flying Officer Warren is to be awarded a posthumous DFC.”
“Thank you, sir. I can’t speak on their behalf, but I think Johnnie’s, I mean, Flying Officer Warren’s family might find some comfort that he died as a hero.”
Newall leaned forward. “What about you, Talbot? You’re getting a medal, someone in your position should be elated. You must have something to say.”
Talbot shifted uneasily in his seat. “To be honest, sir, I can’t help but feeling some responsibility for Johnnie’s death. I’m getting over it, but I really don’t feel like celebrating winning a medal with that hanging over my head. If it’s all the same, sir, I’d rather not discuss the matter further.”
“Fair enough, young man,” said Newall, leaning back, “we’ll consider the matter closed. Now, moving on to why I brought you here…given your flying record and your skills with motors and driving, I believe you may be suited for a special outfit that Mister Churchill and I have put together.” Newall handed a dossier to Talbot, who opened it and started flipping through the pages as Newall continued speaking. “Officially, this outfit is called 319 Squadron, unofficially it is the Excalibur Squadron. Excalibur Squadron is an international outfit: British, the Commonwealth and Empire, Americans, Poles, even German refugees. All volunteers.”
“What exactly is so special about that?”
“This squadron isn’t just a fighter squadron. Its members are trained to carry out special missions behind enemy lines. Unlike regular Commandos, their flight training gives them enormous flexibility when it comes to inserting and extracting them from a mission. In that dossier there, there’s a description of an operation to rescue a Polish general last September; Excalibur Squadron freed him from a German prison and stole a Ju 52 to escape.”
“It does sound rather interesting, sir.”
“I understand this is a lot for you to consider, so I don’t expect your answer right now. Why don’t you take a week to deliberate on this, and I’ll see you here same time next Monday. I’ve already forwarded your dossier to the squadron commander; he has no objections to you joining the squadron, so it’s all down to what you want to do.”
