The summer of 1940 was glorious in more ways than one. It was unusually hot, with
what should have been day after day of unbroken blue skies. Those skies however
writhed with white contrails as Britain and her airforce desperately fought for
her survival against overwhelming odds. The young men who perspired in the hop
fields of Kent would frequently take a break from their labours to watch their
fellow young countrymen fight and die for mastery of the air above their heads.
The RAF, massively outnumbered by a previously invincible German air force,
appeared to be doomed. But there was one source of hope that the British public
clung on to, an amazing machine that had seized their imagination. It’s name?
The Supermarine Spitfire.