The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots (31 page)

I found it – about five miles away to the right and below me. I couldn’t see what it was, but it stood out clearly against the top of the haze, and as I turned sharply towards it, it gave the clue to its nationality by turning from its westerly course and diving steeply east, evidently having seen me too. I nearly lost it in the haze, but soon got nearer and saw it was a Dornier 215. Having made quite sure, I attacked from astern. The fellow was moving bloody fast and it was all I could do in my slow old wooden-blader to get within range. Long before I did so the Hun rear gunner betrayed his feelings by loosing off wildly, the tracers flashing past me all over the place. I fired a short preliminary burst at long range, partly to put him off and partly to steady my aim, and having closed and got my sights on, I opened fire.

The German started turning, first one way, then the other. The rear gunner stopped firing. Realizing that once he was on the deck any shooting would be difficult, I fired longish bursts following each other as rapidly as possible. Soon he was right down on the trees, slowing but still travelling fast. Each time I fired I saw whitish smoke pump from one engine or the other – doubtless glycol – but the determined bloody man kept right on flying. I ran out of ammunition, but must have hit his oil system as my windscreen was splattered with black oil.

I pulled off and watched him from above. Still no fire from the rear gun, but something glowing like a Vérey light floated up towards me; I thought at the time it was a defiant shot from the Hun’s Vérey pistol, his gun being jammed, but decided later it was probably a French tracer-shell from the ground. Anyway, as soon as he saw I’d stopped attacking, he turned half-right and flew straight due east. I did a roll over the top of him to wish him luck and left, as he showed no signs of coming down now and I didn’t know where I was. If his engines lasted long enough without glycol and oil he probably made it all right, and I rather hope he did. Either my shooting was bloody poor or he was loaded with armour, or both. But I felt he’d got the best of me, so I metaphorically raised my hat to him and departed.

I circled uneasily for a few minutes trying to pick up my bearings. The country was thickly wooded and green. Luxembourg? Belgium? Somewhere round there, I thought. As usual my luck held. I came to an airfield with Potez 63s parked round the edge and honeycombed with bomb-craters varying in diameter from six feet to sixty. I was in the right country, but short of fuel, so I landed. In trying to dodge one of the smaller bomb holes, which were invisible at a distance, I swerved violently and dug my port wing in, bending the tip.

I taxied over, wondering what the hell I was going to do about dear old “G”, my aeroplane. The airfield was Mézières. I dug out the French squadron CO, who got an engineer to look my Hurricane over. The engineer said it definitely could not fly, as engineers will. The ailerons still worked, though, and I thought it would fly with full right aileron. The CO left the decision to me but emphasized that he wouldn’t fly it. He thought it would misbehave coming in to land. As he was a pilot of some twenty-five years’ experience I decided to follow his advice.

The French CO was a tall, hard-looking man, bursting with efficiency and quite undisturbed by the numerous delayed-action bombs scattered about the airfield. “Oh, those!” he said contemptuously, “they’ve been going off all night. One gets used to anything in time . . .”

His squadron was engaged in bombing and reconnaissance, operating with the French light mechanized units which had advanced into Luxembourg and southern Belgium. They had not suffered many losses yet. “But,” he added despondently, “if
only
we had more fighters . . .”

He very decently put an aircraft at my disposal to fly me back to Berry, and having taken my maps and parachute out, I said
au revoir
to poor old “G” with her gay red spinner. It was to be goodbye, but I still feel sentimental about her. Three days later Sammy took a lorry and a party of riggers to Mézières to patch her up and bring her home. He was only there five minutes when there was a whine and a roar from the sky, whereupon he was compelled to recline in a ditch for two and a half hours while the airfield was wholeheartedly strafed by low-flying Dorniers. Sammy said he could actually see the pilots and gunners as they flew up and down a matter of yards away bombing and machine-gunning. They did their stuff beautifully, setting fire to all fifteen Potez’s and an assortment of other aircraft and leaving the place a write-off. Sammy’s lorry was shot up. But worst news of all to me, poor old “G” was sieved with bullets. I can only hope she burned before the Huns laid their rude hands on her.

During the trip back I spent most of the time fiddling about with the machine-gun in the rear cockpit. The aeroplane was a Mureau – a very ancient open parasol monoplane with a Hispano engine; it looked like a First War effort. The pilot kept glancing round anxiously to see what I was playing at, while I was hoping no German fighters would appear, at any rate until I’d got the gun working. A fat lot of use it would have been anyway.

Back with the Squadron, I didn’t claim the Dornier, but entered it as a “possible” in my log book. Wing had kicked up a fuss about our taking off to chase up bombing-raids, and AHQ at Reims pointed our curtly that since we were there primarily to provide cover for our bombers on their missions, how the blazes could we rush off all over the sky every time we saw an enemy bomber? We were
not
–, repeat
not
– to take off without orders. If a bombing-raid came over we were to lie down and lump it. All very fine for them deep down in their champagne-cellar shelters. But we supposed they were right; they sometimes were. However, we learnt with relish that three jumbo bombs had dropped just outside their Reims château, wiping out some transport and frightening the pants off them. “What did they expect, setting-up their HQ in a perfect target?” said Prosser tartly.

That same afternoon we were ordered to patrol AHQ at Reims! We were up an hour and a half but saw nothing. I believe the chaps at Headquarters felt a little more confident seeing us droning about over the city. Reims had been bombed, but I couldn’t see any damage. I hoped to God the Germans wouldn’t knock the cathedral down again; the restorers had only just finished making good the World War I damage.

Back at the airfield, “A” Flight dashed off to Pontavert for tea. I had eaten nothing that day and had been up since three, so I wasn’t sorry. We swallowed the hot tea and bread-and-jam, then rushed back to the airfield as a message came through from Wing that a big formation of bombers was heading for Reims – forty-five, they said!

As I doubled across to my new aircraft I met Squadron Leader White, the Roman Catholic padre to the local Battle squadrons. I had met him on our previous visit to Berry in April and thought him a damn good chap. He asked me if I wanted absolution, puffing along beside me. I confessed briefly. He asked if there were any other Catholics who might want absolution. I said “Only old Killy in that Hurricane over there – he hasn’t been active for ten years, but you can try!” We laughed and I waved him goodbye. But confess Killy did – sitting in his cockpit with the padre standing on the wing beside him. He was a good man, that padre. I never saw him again.

Five minutes later we were off. “Patrol Panther” (A H Q Reims) “Angels 10” came over the R/T. Up we climbed – Johnny leading, Hilly No 2 on his right, myself No 3 on the left, and Killy and Soper 4 and 5 respectively, doing the cross-over behind. After fifteen minutes over Reims we were called up: “Two enemy aircraft going west from Sedan – two Dorniers going west – angels 5.” We closed in and shot off north, rubbing our hands at the thought of only two Dorniers to five Hurricanes at 5,000 feet.

Approaching Sedan Johnny called: “There they are! There they are! Straight ahead!” I couldn’t see them at first, but suddenly I did, and my heart raced. As we came nearer I counted them – thirty Dorniers in two squadrons of fifteen more or less in line abreast, covered by fifteen 110s
²¹
in groups of twos and threes wheeling and zig-zagging slowly above, ahead, beside and behind the bombers. They were going west across our noses from right to left.

Johnny rocked his wings for us to close in tighter and pressed straight on, climbing a little to 7,000 feet, then turning left and diving at the Huns from astern. “Now keep in – keep in – and keep a bloody good look-out!” he said steadily. I was swivel-eyed as we approached, to make sure we were not being attacked by something unseen, for the Huns continued straight on although we were closing on them. They must have seen us long before, but it was not until the last moment that the 110s wheeled, some to the right and some to the left, going into aircraft-line-astern in twos and threes.

We went in fast in a tight bunch, each picking a 110 and manœuvring to get on his tail. I selected the rear one of two in line-astern who were turning tightly to the left. He broke away from his No 1 when he had done a half-circle and steepened his turn, but I easily turned inside him, holding my fire until I was within fifty yards and then firing a shortish burst at three-quarters deflection. To my surprise a mass of bits flew off him – pieces of engine-cowling and lumps of his glass-house (hood) – and as I passed just over the top of him, still in a left-hand turn, I watched with a kind of fascinated horror as he went into a spin, smoke pouring out of him. I remember saying “My God, how ghastly!” as his tail suddenly swivelled sideways and tore off, while flames streamed over the fuselage. Then, I saw a little white parachute open beside it. Good!

Scarcely half a minute had passed, yet as I looked quickly around me I saw four more 110s go down – one with its tail off, a second in a spin, a third vertically in flames, and a fourth going up at forty-five degrees in a left-hand stall-turn with a little Hurricane on its tail firing into its side, from which burst a series of flashes and long shooting red flames. I shall never forget it.

All the 110s at my level were hotly engaged, so I searched above. “Yes – those buggers up there will be a nuisance soon!” Three cunning chaps were out of the fight, climbing like mad in line-astern to get above us to pounce. I had plenty of ammunition left, so I climbed after them with the boost-override pulled. They were in a slight right-hand turn, and as I climbed I looked around. There were three others over on the right coming towards me, but they were below. I reached the rear 110 of the three above me. He caught fire after a couple of bursts and went down in flames. Then I dived at the trinity coming up from the right and fired a quick burst at the leader head-on.

I turned, but they were still there; so were the other two from above. In a moment I was in the centre of what seemed a stack of 110s, although there were in fact only five. I knew I hadn’t the speed or height in my wooden-blader to dive away and beat it, so I decided to stay and make the best of it. Although I was more manoeuvrable at this height than the Huns, I found it impossible to get an astern shot in because every time I almost got one lined up, tracers came whipping past from another on my tail. All I could do was keep twisting and turning, and when a 110 got behind me make as tight a turn as possible, almost spinning, with full engine, and fly straight at him, firing a quick burst, then push the stick forward and dive under his nose. I would then pull up in a steep climbing turn to meet the next gentleman.

Obviously they couldn’t all attack at once without colliding, but several times I was at the apex of a cone formed by the cannon and machine-gun fire of three of them. Their tactics consisted mostly of diving, climbing and taking full deflection shots at me. Their shooting seemed wild. This manœuvre was easily dealt with by turning towards them and popping over their heads, forcing them to steepen their climb until they stalled and had to fall away. But I was not enjoying this marathon. Far from it. My mouth was getting drier and drier, and I was feeling more and more desperate and exhausted. Would they run out of ammunition? Would they push off? Would help come? I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer.

After what seemed an age (actually it turned out to be fifteen minutes, which is an exceptionally long time for a dog-fight) I was flying down head-on at a 110 who was climbing up to me. We both fired – and I thought I had left it too late and we would collide. I pushed the stick forward violently. There was a stunning explosion right in front of me. For an instant my mind went blank. My aircraft seemed to be falling, limp on the controls. Then as black smoke poured out of the nose and enveloped the hood, and a hot blast and a flicker of reflected flame crept into the dark cockpit, I said “Come on – out you go!” pulled the pin out of my harness, wrenched open the hood and hauled myself head-first out to the right.

The wind pressed me tightly against the side of the aircraft, my legs still inside. I caught hold of the trailing edge of the wing and heaved myself out. As I fell free and somersaulted I felt as if a giant had me on the end of a length of wire, whirling me round and round through the air. I fumbled for and pulled the rip-cord and was pulled the right way up with a violent jerk that winded me. My head was pressed forward by the parachute back-pad that had slipped up behind, and I couldn’t look up to see if the parachute was O K. I had no sensation of movement – just a slight breeze as I swung gently to and for. For all I knew the thing might be on fire or not properly open.

I heard the whirr of Hun engines and saw three of the 110s circle me. I looked at the ground and saw a shower of flaming sparks as something exploded in an orchard far below: my late aeroplane.

The Hun engines faded and died. I rolled the rip cord round its D-ring and put it in my pocket as a souvenir. I was still bloody frightened, as I was smack over a wood and thought I’d probably break my legs if I landed in it; and I confess without shame that I reeled off several prayers, both of thanks and supplication, as I dangled in the air. I was soon low enough to see my drift. It was towards a village, and it looked as though I might clear the trees only to hit a roof. But no – it was to be the wood all right. I was very low now, swinging gently. I saw two French motor-cycle troops running along the road, first one way, then the other. I waved to them. The trees rushed up at me. Now for it! I relaxed completely, shutting my eyes calmly. There was a swish of branches and a bump as I did a back-somersault on the ground. I had fallen between the trees.