Ten Fighter Boys. Группа авторов

besides which it’s remarkable the interest in the finer points one takes when life might be suddenly terminated.

      The morning was fresh with haze up to about 4,000 feet and between that and 6,000 feet there were some patchy bits of cloud. In fact, a typical summer’s morning, that foretold a brilliant day of sunshine, which indeed it turned out to be. Getting away was done surprisingly quick considering our machines were mixed amongst the mob generally. A little “pedalling” on the rudder-bar, plenty of hard pressure on the brake-lever and we had taxied clear of the other parked aircraft, amidst a cloud of dust, since this particular station was noted for its dry soil qualities.

      We took off in “vic’s” of three aircraft. Jock was No. 2 on the right, with myself on the left as No.3 of our section, which was led by a daring but experienced flying-officer. We were termed “Yellow” section, and brought up the rear of the four sections which comprised the squadron. The others being Blue, leading, followed by Green and Red sections.

      Very quickly we took up our positions, and when Blue Leader, the C.O., called up over the “R/T,” “Are you in position Green, Red and Yellow leaders?” all were able to reply in the affirmative. As we climbed up, circling the aerodrome, we were given a precautionary warning to use the weak mixture to conserve our fuel, and also be sparing with oxygen. Meanwhile the other squadrons were following in our wake, having taken-off behind us.

      The intention was to cross the English coast at 7 a.m., all stationed correctly at our prearranged heights – 27,000 feet for us. By this time the squadron-leader had earned the title of “Oxygen Charlie,” owing to our close proximity to the celestial bodies on each of these shows. The actual sweep over French soil was to last an hour, since our fuel supply wouldn’t leave us a good fighting margin if this period were exceeded.

      Whilst we were gaining height, every one settled down, and I found myself doing the routine things such as trimming the aircraft to fly nicely to the hand, adjusting the seat and straps for safety and comfort, setting the gunsights, and switching on the necessary heaters which neutralise the cold at high altitude, so preventing freezing up of the instruments. I found myself very apprehensive. Would we meet anything this time? I wondered if the Jerries are as crafty as they say in using the sun and extra height. Anyhow I’d much rather be up here than one of those poor blighters on the beach at Dunkirk. I visualised the morning papers of the past few days, each prominently displaying a map of the battle area, the same area to which we were heading, and each showing a complete encirclement of the Dunkirk locality by German armoured divisions. Why had we been trapped like it – were the German chiefs too clever, or was it muddling; if the latter, WHY?

      In much the same way as in a dream my mind seemed to flit from thought to thought, sometimes with no fixed relationship, and constantly running through the advice of more experienced pilots: If they get on your tail – go into a steep turn and make it steep – try to climb and gain height – you’ll beat ’em. And so it went on.

      After about 20 minutes the dial registering the oxygen content in its cylinder showed an abnormally large drop, compared with what I had usually experienced. The supply gauge, on the other hand, showed itself to be perfectly normal, so I immediately knew that there must be a leak somewhere in the pipe-line or system, and it was odds on that the oxygen would run out on me. However, not wanting to be out of it, I elected to carry on until it really did get empty, and proceeded to use a supply equivalent to a height of 5,000 feet below that at which we were flying, in an attempt to economise. It gave me a slight headache for a short while, but an occasional burst of the correct amount seemed to overcome that.

      We crossed the coast outward bound only a minute or so behind schedule and were now flying in fairly open formation with us “Yellow” boys behind, and a bit above the rest of the squadron. Thus Yellow section could act as lookouts for the squadron against attacks from above.

      I saw nothing of the other squadrons or any other aircraft as we swept over the Channel and carried out our patrol, and I was watching the oxygen very carefully. After about fifty minutes of the patrol it was down on the red danger mark, indicating that it was almost empty. Without oxygen at 27,000 feet I would pass out in very short time, so I was about to call up my C.O. for permission to return home, when another high-pitched, excited voice smote my ears before I could speak: “Hallo, Blue Leader, Red Leader calling, I can see something going on below, am going down to investigate” – a short pause then a reply – “O.K. Red Leader, Yellow section follow and guard their tails.” That meant us, and it was the answer to my oxygen troubles since I could manage without any if I went low enough.

      “Here it is,” I thought. “Hell! Yellow one’s putting on the horses.” By this time, however, we had lost sight of Reds as they had a slight lead, and their camouflage soon merged into the terrain below. However, we dived like “ding-bats,” making it almost impossible to keep formation decently. Jock and I were quite wide from our leader as we tore through some patchy cloud at 15,000 feet using both hands on the stick. This cloud proved a bloody nuisance, as our ice-cold windscreens misted up with frozen water vapour on the inside, and I could see 3/5 of “Fanny Adams.”

      At about 12,000 feet we saw several batches of bombers – HE. 111 and JU. 88’s – sweeping around the area in threes and fives. Yellow 1 yelled out, “Prepare for No. 3 attack,” one which we had practised so often and hadn’t been put to the test. Next, “Line astern – GO!” came over the radio, as we weaved round into position to attack 5 JU. 88’s who appeared oblivious of our presence. Next came the precautionary order, “Echelon port – GO!” just as I noticed a lot of ack-ack popping up 330 yards behind the enemy. The French were going great guns but not hitting anything. Perhaps they thought we were enemy fighters – perhaps. Why is it, I ruminated, that the anti-aircraft gun is designed to shoot where the bombers have been and not where they are. Surely a good intelligent chap could give them just an extra bit of elevation and range, merely by looking at the results. But then I’m only a lay mind and it’s no doubt much more difficult really.

      Anyway, ignoring the “muck,” we forged our way up astern of the 88’s and pumped lead into them on a grand scale. In order to see my target I had to continually rub my windscreens with my gauntlet as the forward view was completely obscured by water which had frozen. I rubbed clear a small patch sufficient to see through, but I had to keep rubbing as the frost formed up as quickly as I removed it. It’s a sod holding the “stick” in one hand and rubbing away with the other. If I don’t look out I’ll misjudge my distance and ram that ugly load of hate in front. And yet I don’t seem to be overtaking him very fast. Quite nice in fact, a tribute to the leading of Yellow 1. It’s grand to sit there and hear a noise like taut canvas ripping as the eight guns send out flashing white streaks towards their objective. The machine I myself selected and attacked, as far as I could see, had jets of flame and black smoke trailing back from its engines, and was certainly badly damaged. Our leader broke off the attack sideways and downwards in the approved fashion, with No. 2 and myself following in close attendance, then climbed up again to position himself for a further attack. I wondered what was being said and done in the bomber meanwhile.

      It was whilst I was trailing Nos. 1 and 2 in this climb that I spotted a silver Messerschmitt 109 single-engine fighter circling into position to have a crack at me from the rear. Giving the others a yell over the “R/T,” accompanied by a display of blue lights from my posterior (which would have been the envy of Mr. Brock), I wheeled away into a supertight left-hand turn which appeared too much for him since he sheered off at plus boost; I presume to try and surprise another stooge.

      I had only just rid myself of this pest when huge white plumes of smoke began streaming back past the hood from the direction of the engine exhaust. I immediately concluded that the French had hit something at last, or possibly a JU. 88 had scored a “double top” on my engine with their return fire. A quick glance at the instruments assured me that the engine was as rough as it felt, with the radiator temp. well around the “clock” on its second trip, together with a negligible oil pressure. When black smoke and oil fumes suddenly enveloped me from the direction of my feet blotting out everything and almost suffocating me, I realised that I shouldn’t see my base, or even the white cliffs of England, that day again.

      After