Ten Fighter Boys. Группа авторов

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.

       Duggie’s Story

      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.

      That night we were very thankful to two W.A.A.F. N.C.O.s who, although they weren’t cooks (at least according to R.A.F. documents), turned out a lovely set of cooked suppers for the sergeant-pilots, an event which I shan’t forget quickly.

      The next morning we had an early “stand-to” period, when another invasion rumour seemed to grip every one, then after breakfast we shoved-off to our marshalling base at “G” again. Here was a repetition of yesterday’s landscape except that another squadron had tootled in to swell the band of happy pilgrims.

      We did two sweeps over Dunkirk that day, at least the squadron did, as I had to stand down on the first one to let our spare men have a crack. These two sweeps were replicas of the first with yours-truly doing “tail-end Charlie” at 25,000 feet or over, not seeing anything, and learning afterwards that one or two of the lower boys had a few sharp tussles. I suppose, though, we served our purpose in protecting the mob from attack from above. Most of the officers and sergeants saw no reason why on the next trip we shouldn’t be one of the lower squadrons and let someone else have a go at the synthetic ozone. At least, I thought the lower temperature would make us more comfortable. We all had a moan to the C.A. about it, and he in turn was in full agreement.

      That evening we returned to our parent station at “D,” much to every one’s delight, for it was here that the squadron was born and brought up, right to the time of opening this narrative. They didn’t expect us, but we managed to find some beds belonging to blokes on leave. No doubt profanity filled the air when our cheeky apologies for the use of their comforts were conveyed to them.

      No peace for the wicked. 6 a.m. next morning saw us awake and numbers in the air within a quarter of an hour, still rubbing tired eyes and yawning too. The “kytes” had been worked on all through the night by a small bloody keen bunch of grease monkeys. And all the technical hitches had been unknotted.

      This time it was an entirely different aerodrome, at “M,” that we used for a forward base, but the scenery when we’d landed was entirely the same as the view from the tarmac at “G.” Aeroplanes to the right of me, aeroplanes to the left of me, aeroplanes in front, in fact, aeroplanes. It was quite comforting to see this local display of might, and we all had a feeling of confident optimism that, whatever happened, the sparks would certainly fly, given half a chance. I (and the others) had been here before and knew the general layout, but it didn’t matter since we didn’t get the chance to stray any distance from our machines.

      A cup of tea was available, at this unearthly hour, from a N.A.A.F.I. van. The time of day, coupled with the fact that the beverage was gratis, caused us much speculation as to the coming trip.

      The various C.O.’s of the participating squadrons had visited the Ops. Room, where the general scheme was outlined to them and they, in their turn, made arrangements for mutual safety and efficiency. Once more, so we were told, we were to be “stooge” squadron of the group, which would be stepped-up, squadron at a time, at intervals of about 4,000 feet. We estimated that taking-off as quickly as was safe we would all be in the correct position when we crossed