Ten Fighter Boys

Another funny thing about combat is the vague and jumbled picture that one gets immediately afterwards. I can only remember having seen the black crosses on a German machine on two occasions. I think one knows instinctively when an aeroplane is hostile. On one occasion I had beaten up a 109, and his engine was stopped. I yelled out jubilantly over the Radio Telephony, “I’ve just got a 109.” Yet on landing, the only clear recollection I had of the action was of seeing the other fellow’s parachute going down.

I expect most people wonder what it must be like to have to bale-out. I used to wonder also, until one day when I had a collision in the air. I didn’t know the full extent of the damage to my aeroplane, all I knew was that I’d got no airscrew, and the other fellow’s tail-plane had knocked my windscreen off. I was at 6,000 feet, which isn’t too high, and I had to make a horrible decision – to bale-out or try and force-land. The latter would entail the risk of the aircraft falling to pieces on me, whilst I didn’t like to think of the former. The thing which decided me was the fact that I’d instinctively loosened all my straps and tubes and I couldn’t risk a crash-landing unless I was tightly strapped in. So over the side I went, with my hand on the rip-cord. I honestly don’t remember falling or pulling the rip-cord, or even letting it go, but my next impression is one of a deathly silence and a huge canopy above me. I seemed to be stationary ’twixt Heaven and Earth. I finally landed up a tree, hanging twenty feet from the ground. When I scrambled down the trunk, the Home Guard were all for shooting me. I managed to convince them of my identity, however, before they took that step, and went to a nearby house where I was treated to a distinctly large whisky with a touch of soda.

What glorious days those were: blue English skies, with always the chance of seeing a Hun. Knowing that your country depended on you, that every one’s prayers and hopes were with you; the excitement of the chase; the exhilaration of seeing your opponent going down in flames, whilst at the same time knowing that your chances were equal. The trip home at unprecedented speeds; your base; the final beat-up with the inevitable upward Charlie or victory roll. And then your fitter’s jubilance at your success; a cup of steaming-hot tea, and after that, who knows?

On that note I will leave you to read the true stories of a few fighter-pilots.

H.A.

Duggie is of medium height, stocky build, dark and very quiet until you get him on a party; the type of bloke that never asks fool questions and thinks well before he answers. He has a peculiar short, nervous laugh, a grand sense of humour and a wonderful knack of enjoying every minute of life. He has an enormous beer-drinking capacity and once dumbfounded the petty-officers of a well-known destroyer by drinking all except one of them under the table.

He was the senior sergeant-pilot and one of the most important blokes in the squadron, a first-class peelow and very definite capabilities as an organiser and administrator.

I hope that shortly he will get his commission, and that we will be able to retain him in the squadron. I also look forward to the day when he will become a flight-commander, a job which I know he will do exceptionally well.

THE curtain goes up at the end of May when “Peacekrieg” became “Blitzkrieg” with a vengeance. Apart from two “shows” at the time of Rotterdam’s fall, the squadron had seen practically no action. Following these “do’s” we made two moves in quick succession, remaining at one aerodrome for little over a week. Having barely landed and refuelled after our last shift, one of the flight-commanders went about rounding up the majority of sergeant-pilots, telling them in hushed tones that we were going places, and advising us to get small kit packed up in ten minutes, ready to fly again. During that ten minutes we rushed to our quarters in the mess, some of us grumbling about the lack of warning and all the messing around we’d suffered during the past fortnight. A plaintive murmur in colonial English from “Digger” – “I shan’t be able to write to me wife” – and we all burst out laughing, since every day regularly, this newly-wed had told his Doris of his love and other sweet nothings. After delving into kit which had just arrived, and swearing “not by Kolynos,” I managed to sort out the necessary. It’s funny, but when you are told of an impending offensive action, you all get so keyed-up with the future trip as the predominant subject of your grey matter, even to the extent of becoming forgetful about the ordinary things of life. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to see someone who is turfed out of bed for a sweep at short notice, clamber into his aircraft in pyjamas, having forgotten all about the minor detail of a pair of slacks.

So a quarter of an hour later saw 14 Spitfires take the air with the occupants loaded-up to the eyebrows and resembling the proverbial Xmas tree. Myself, in the restricted space to spare, had crammed a respirator, shaving tackle and all necessities for “bed and board.” If feelings were any criterion I emulated the prince of poultry and felt completely stuffed.

Only one or two pilots besides our C.O. knew the destination, and I’m afraid my formation flying left quite a lot to be desired, as I tried to keep position on my leader with one eye whilst trying to survey the ground below with the other. We were going west, that was certain; then after 40 minutes or so a very large town with balloons easily seen against the sun. Ah, Birmingham, I thought – but what were we doing passing the Midlands like this – were we en route for Ireland? Had the Führer sprung another surprise? Eventually after much speculation (all wrong) we touched down on the runways on a Home Counties aerodrome – “K.” We quickly refuelled and pushed on to another one – “G,” some 10 minutes distant. During the brief spell at “K,” I looked it over with what might be called a “pilot’s eye.” That is, trees and stately buildings which appear as beautifiers, read through a pilot’s eyes as a nuisance and the possible cause of a crash on landing. I well remember Paddy saying what a sod it would be for night-flying here. And those balloons! God, the chaps here must be good, flying day in and day out so close to these pilots’ dreads.

At “G” I saw more Spitfires than I had hitherto imagined possible to park on one field. Truly Britain’s might in the skies, little dreaming of the future hades to come. After a “confab,” it was passed around that we were to sweep the Dunkirk area as a protection for the evacuation. Our squadron were chosen to be top dogs above three others, and had to be content to waffle along at about 26,000 feet. “Oh Christ,” was said a dozen times if it was said once. I myself was one offender when the valve on the oxygen bottle would only turn with the greatest of difficulty. These things normally don’t worry me much, but the tense state of mind led to far less patience with the things which weren’t “just so.”

At last with a thunderous roar we all took off and sorted out our respective positions. I saw nothing of the other three squadrons after we approached the English coast, being busy keeping station and sharp look-out. In fact to be precise, I saw nothing of anything the whole trip. A completely uneventful trip apart from a bloody chilly feeling where my feet ought to have been. After a slight miscalculation by the C.O. we pancaked back on the runways at “K.” The squadron-leader had had us quite perturbed for a quarter of an hour, during which time we looked over the side to see only sea, and plenty of it, and a low fuel-gauge reading didn’t exactly promote a contented frame of mind. It was damn funny really, on reflection, to see the whole squadron open out on crossing the English coast, in failing light and poor visibility, every one trying to be the first in establishing our position and sighting our base. The trip cost us one aeroplane when the undercart failed to come down on one chap’s “kyte,” resulting in a sensational tearing noise as terra firma grabbed at his fuselage. There was one other “ring-twitch” effort when a sergeant-pilot, “Jock,” landed across the runway and looked all the way as though he had an urgent date with a scrap heap. Anyway, hard application of brakes to the tune of sergeant-major’s rhetoric averted another calamity.