Part 50. Late due to computer problems - had to nuke the C: drive and start again. Computers are great when they work ...

November, 1940

RAID ON MUNICH

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT OF A HEAVY BOMBER SQUADRON

THIS was our first trip to Munich. Our target was the railway locomotive and marshalling yards, almost in the centre of the city and only a short distance away from the famous Brown House of the Nazi Party. Just before we took off the senior intelligence officer came rushing over and said he thought that we might be interested to know that Hitler and some of his gangsters were to be in Munich that night to celebrate the anniversary of the BEER HALL Putsch of 1923.

Everybody was flat out to get there. They had included in my bomb load one of the heaviest calibre bombs that we have so far carried. I talked things over with the observer and we decided before we left that as the station commander had been kind enough to entrust us with the delivery of this heavy calibre bomb we'd go in as low as possible to make sure of getting the target. It was a beautiful starlight night and there was almost a half moon. We were checking up our course by the stars as we went out. Round Munich itself there was not a cloud in the sky. We passed an enemy aerodrome—all lit up for night flying—but on the way out we weren't wasting any bombs on that. We saw one of our fellows flying about five miles in front of us, getting a packet of stuff thrown up at him over Mannheim. He flew straight through it, but we turned away to the left and avoided the town. After Mannheim, Munich wasn't very far away and everybody was sitting up and taking notice. We were about twenty minutes' flying-time away when we first saw the flak and the searchlights coming up around the city. The navigator got a bit worried because we were ten minutes in front of our estimated time of arrival and he thought for a minute that we might have got off our course. Then we picked up a landmark—a goodish-sized lake—to the south of Munich—and set course from there. Some of the other fellows had gone on ahead to light up the target and we could see their incendiaries bursting.

Flares were dropping all round as we went in. The guns on the ground were shooting quite well. I saw three flares shot down almost as soon as they had been dropped. We flew over to have a preliminary look at things and found we were about a mile south of the marshalling yards. We were low enough and it was so light that we could see houses and streets quite clearly. It was the bomb aimer's dream of the perfect night. Altogether we stooged round for about twenty minutes, checking up on our target. We saw somebody else drop his stick of bombs slap on the target. The explosions lit up the locomotive sheds. We came down lower and they were shooting at us hard. In the light of one of our own flares I saw a stationary engine in the yard. I could make out the glow from its fires and I noticed, incidentally, that it had steam up. We had to turn round and come back over the yards, making our run from south-east to north-west. Then we went whistling down. Tracer seemed to be coming up right under the wings and the bomb aimer said that he could see it coming up towards him as he lay in the nose of the aircraft looking down through his tunnel.

All the way down in the dive I could see these big black locomotive sheds in front of me.

The front gunner was shooting out searchlights, which I thought was a pretty good effort, and the rear gunner was having a try at the same game, but it was more difficult for him. I'd told them that they could let loose with their guns and they didn't want telling twice. The bomb aimer got the target right in his sight. He said: "I can see it: I can see it absolutely perfectly." Then he called out: "Bombs gone. I've got it." As a matter of fact I don't see how he could have missed at that height. Both he and the rear-gunner saw the bombs burst. The rear gunner said that the heavy one made a dickens of an explosion. In the excitement I'd more or less forgotten that we had got this big bomb on board and the force of the explosion gave the aircraft a tremendous wallop. If we had come down any lower we should have been blown up. As it was we all thought we'd been hit. The effect was just as if a heavy shell had burst right under the rear turret. There was a stunned silence for a few seconds; then another babble of conversation when everybody decided that we were all right.

We were still low down. Searchlights kept popping up. The front gunner put out two and the rear gunner put out four. It was a remarkable sight to see the coloured tracer going down the beams of the light. After that, it was a race back because we'd been told that the weather would close down over our base and that after two o'clock we'd be very lucky if we got in there, so we beetled back pretty rapidly. Altogether it was a perfect trip.


9 Staffel/ Jagdgeschwader 26 in France. On the flight line.


Not sure if this is an accident or not.
Note the difference in the emblem – thinner early on.

Part 51.

November, 1940

BOMBING DANZIG

BY A FLYING OFFICER

With the longer hours of darkness the bombers of the Royal Air Force are striking farther and farther afield. Italy and Czechoslovakia have already felt the weight of their attack and now Poland has been brought within the sphere of their nightly operations. For the layman it is difficult to visualise just what these long-distance raids involve, with their many hours of flying over enemy territory, their dangers and their dis¬comforts. Here is an account by an R.A.F. flying officer, the navigator of a heavy bomber returned from a raid on Poland, which gives some idea of what such a flight is really like.

THE trip I am going to try and describe to you this evening was from England to Danzig and back. Danzig, of course, is a port at the Baltic end of the former Polish Corridor, and the journey was roughly equivalent to a non-stop flight from London to Madrid and back. The total distance, including necessary devia¬tions, was something like 2,000 miles. Most of the credit for the flight belongs to the sergeant-pilot who was at the controls of the aircraft. For over eleven hours, without relief, he sat in his small cockpit, constantly on the alert and liable as captain of the aircraft, to be called upon for instant decision in any emergency which might arise. For us other members of the crew the strain was much less severe. When things were running smoothly we could take our minds off the job in hand and some of us, if we became too cramped, could get up and stretch our legs. But not the pilot. He had to stick it, and, looking back, I still think that his staying power, matching that of the great engines which carried us on the long journey, was the most remarkable feature of our flight.

When we were first told that Poland was to be our destination we were just about as pleased as we could be. Apart from the fact that the long flight promised some excitement, we were particularly bucked at the idea of cheering up the Poles by taking a crack at the invaders on their very doorstep. We'd already proved the idleness of Goering's boasts by repeated hammerings at Berlin and now this trip would give us the chance to show that we could not only elude his anti-aircraft defences in Germany, but fly right over them to help our friends on the other side.

We set off in daylight. There were four of us in the aircraft: the pilot, two air gunners, one of whom was also the wireless operator, and myself. I was the navigator and it was my job to guide the aircraft to the target and bring it safely home again.

The sky was clear and the sun was shining when we started, and it was still daylight when we crossed over the North Sea and into enemy territory. We were all keyed-up and keeping a sharp look-out for enemy fighters, but none came our way. Perhaps it was just as well for them that they didn't. We were determined that we were going to get to Poland that night and if anything had got in our way it would have had a warm reception. Our gunners' trigger-fingers were itching to go into action and our pilot, still fresh and alert, was ready to take any evasive action that might have been necessary.

Actually, that part of our trip over Germany was so quiet and uneventful that it might well have been peacetime. But soon after the sun had set the weather changed. It became steadily worse and for practically all the rest of the outward journey remained thoroughly bad. As we flew further east we ran into a snowstorm and within half an hour the interior of my cockpit was some two inches deep in snow. It was fine and powdery, and when I wanted to use my maps I had to blow the snow away before I could read them. The snow also managed, somehow or other, to get into my fur-lined coat, but as I was so cold by then, a little snow, more or less, didn't make much difference to me.

Apart from the snow, we also had to contend with a parti¬cularly violent electrical storm, and although none of the static penetrated into the aircraft I could see it striking the propeller tips and making the airscrews look like a couple of Catherine-wheels. I've never seen anything like it before—and I don't particularly want to again.

Later on, as a change from the elements, we had a taste of enemy opposition. It came in the form of a certain amount of anti-aircraft gunfire, but it didn't really worry us. What it did do was to tell us that the enemy knew we were in the vicinity and it gave us rather a kick to think of the hundreds of air-raid sirens that were being sounded at every town and village along our course. We knew we were Poland-bound, but the Hun could have had no idea where we were going.

We reached Danzig at last, and just to look down on the Baltic Sea was enough to give us all a tremendous thrill. It looked so peaceful with the moonlight shining on the water and a back-ground of cloud on the distant horizon. To do justice to the scene requires a poet rather than a navigator, so I won't attempt to describe it. Then I got on with the job of searching for our target.

One thing I had to bear well in mind. If there was any possi¬bility of my bombs falling on the civilian population then I must not drop them. As we circled the city unmolested by searchlights or anti-aircraft fire I spotted our target, a railway yard. Railway yards, whether they be at Hamm or Danzig, look much the same, and as we came low the moon glinted on railway buildings and tracks, and there, spread out before us, was the old familiar network.

I told my pilot I was ready to bomb, but he wasn't taking any chances. "You're quite sure of it?" he called out, and only when I had reassured him did he straighten up the aircraft for the bombing-run.

As we approached the target I took careful aim through my bomb-sights. The light was so good and the target so big that I just couldn't miss. The next thing I heard was a call from the rear-gunner. He had seen the bombs burst and they had started quite a large fire. It was obvious from the lack of opposition from the ground defences that we had taken the enemy by surprise. Or perhaps they had forgotten something we had remembered—that it was the anniversary of Poland's Day of Independence.

After we had dropped our bombs on our enemies in Poland, we had the more pleasant task of delivering leaflets to our friends the Poles. Though none of us could read Polish, we had all studied the circulars with great interest before we set off. We were able to make out two passages. One of them was the news that President Roosevelt had been re-elected in the name of Democracy, and the other was "Long Live Poland!"

And just in case there are any Poles listening to this broadcast, I'd like to end with the only Polish word I know—"Dobsha!"— or, in English, "It's all right!"


Getting ready for the night.


Tucked up.

Part 52, a year I've been posting these, and a very enjoyable year too. Happy Birthday to me ...

November, 1940

A HURRICANE SQUADRON ATTACKS TWENTY-FIVE JUNKERS 87s

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT

YES, it really was a good day for the squadron. We caught about twenty-five Junkers 87 dive bombers attacking ships off Orford-ness. We shot down fifteen of them into the sea, probably destroyed seven others and damaged one more. So that out of the twenty-five dive-bombers making the attack, only two escaped us without bullet-holes in them.

We all seemed to have a hunch that there were going to be fireworks that afternoon, and decided to stay in the crew-room instead of going across to the mess for tea. We were quite right; for at about ten minutes past four, we had orders to take off and patrol over one of our convoys. We were all in the air within three or four minutes. We had been patrolling the convoy for about ten minutes, when looking towards the south I suddenly saw the bursting of anti-aircraft shells about twelve miles away, some distance from the coast. I called up the other boys on the radio telephone and off we went towards the bursting shells. We were a few miles away when I saw the first of the enemy bombers diving down on some objective we could not see. The weather was not very good; there was a sea fog reaching up to 2,000 feet but at 10,000 feet where we were the sun was shining brightly. So I led the squadron round to get the advantage of the sun and down we went on to the enemy. We found that three or four of them at a time were dive-bombing ships from 7,000 feet; they were taking it in turn to go down vertically, one behind the other. I told the squadron to attack from somewhere below 2,000 feet and to choose their own targets. Down we went, taking the enemy completely by surprise as we did their escort of Messerschmitt fighters.

We dived down and got within range of our targets below a thousand feet and then we gave them "the works". We attacked them in pairs, one of us giving the enemy a good burst and the other doing what he could to finish him off.

And this is what happened to me: first of all I went after one Junkers—a sergeant-pilot followed when I broke away and did him a lot more damage. The bomber went waffling out to sea, looking very sorry for himself. Bits had been shot off him, so we claimed him for a probable as he didn't look as though he would get very far. Then looking round again I saw another bomber at only a few hundred feet above the sea. So I got right behind him and opened fire and kept on firing all the time I was overtaking him. I could see my bullets hitting him and his rear-gunner stopped firing almost immediately. Then I got really close to him and shot him up again.

Suddenly the Junkers blew up in the air. I think I must have hit a bomb, for there was a yellow flash and a cloud of black smoke. The explosion gave me a bump for as I broke away, blinded by the smoke, my Hurricane shuddered and dropped quite a distance. I couldn't see what happened to the bomber after that, but some of the boys said afterwards that it fell in little pieces over quite a big area of the sea. It was an extraordinary show—one moment the bomber was there, the next there was a big cloud of black smoke in its place.

After that I circled round for a few minutes searching for something else to take on and soon found another bomber which I attacked with the last of my ammunition. When I had used it all up and had broken away, another of my Hurricanes took over and attacked him. He was so badly damaged that he became one more of our probables.

While this had been going on, the rest of my squadron had been doing grand work and that day was definitely the best day for the squadron that I can remember. It was such a quick job and took only five minutes' fighting to clear the air of Germans. I mentioned just now that we took off at ten minutes past four and at a quarter to five we had landed on our aerodrome again.


A very early Hurricane.

Part 53.

November, 1940

A TALK ON ELEMENTARY FLYING TRAINING

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT INSTRUCTOR

I'VE been doing elementary flying instruction for a couple of years now, and during that time many lads have passed through my hands and have become pilots.

At the school where I am an instructor we use light training types of aircraft. The particular type I instruct on has certain special qualities. In the first place it is easy to fly somehow, in the second place it is difficult to fly really well, and lastly, but perhaps most important of all, you have to fly it very badly and foolishly if you are going to crash it and possibly hurt yourself.

I would like to say just a word about this term "Elementary Instruction". A surprisingly large number of our pupils have never been in the air and in nine cases out of ten the pupil has never before handled the controls of an aeroplane. But at the end of his elementary training the pupil can, by himself, land the aeroplane consistently well, find his way from one aerodrome to another maybe fifty or more miles away, perform all the usual aerobatics, fly under the hood by the sole use of his instruments, and make a safe landing almost anywhere in the event of an engine failure. When he leaves us he goes on to the Service Flying Training School, where he carries out more advanced training.
I think the best way of giving you a picture of elementary training from the instructor's point of view is for me to try and describe the sequence of instruction from the day a new pupil arrives until the day he leaves.

When a batch of new pupils arrive at the school they are divided into two squads so that while one squad is flying, the other squad is attending lectures. Each instructor is given his quota: it may be any number between two and seven. Next morning all the pupils are to be found waiting outside their changing room looking, not unnaturally, rather uncomfortable at first in their new flying kit. I remember on one hot summer afternoon, I found a new pupil clad in a Sidcot suit with teddy-bear lining, lambskin flying-boots, two pairs of gloves and a thick woollen scarf wound several times round his neck! I think he must have been wearing every single item of kit with which he had been issued. Actually, of course, a light overall to keep one's shirt and trousers clean is all that is necessary in that sort of weather.

Then, having found my pupil, I have a chat with him so that I can size him up and find out whether he has had any flying experience. The pupil then gets into the rear cockpit and I show him how to secure his safety harness and connect up his telephone so that we can talk to each other when we ate in the air. After explaining to him the various controls and instruments and telling him to leave everything alone for the time being, I get into the front cockpit, start the engine, taxi out and we take off.

The first quarter of an hour is taken up in climbing gently to about 3,000 feet while I point out some of the local landmarks and try to get him to settle down in his new environment.

After that the pupil begins to learn how to fly. First of all, I show him the effect of each control, making him try them him¬self and he learns that by co-ordinating them he can keep the aeroplane first straight, then level, and in the end, both straight and level. After about half an hour of this we fly back to the aerodrome, the pupil flying the aeroplane as far as possible, though as soon as we get near the aerodrome I take over and make the approach and landing. That ends the pupil's first lesson.

Before we actually take off for the next flight—probably about an hour later—I show him how to start the engine and how to taxi the aeroplane about the aerodrome. We then take off again, climb to a reasonable height and do a bit more straight and level flying. If he is a fairly apt pupil he goes a stage further and learns how to climb, how to glide, and what happens when flying speed is lost and the aeroplane stalls.

I should like to emphasise that, from the very earliest stage, as far as possible the pupil does all the flying except during short intervals for demonstration. Of course, the instructor has to do the taking-off and landing during the first few hours of dual, but as soon as the pupil can put up some sort of a show he does all these manoeuvres himself, assisted by advice only if it should be necessary.

The third day probably sees a start made in taking-off and landing. He will now spend anything between three and ten hours doing practically nothing else but taking-off, flying round the aerodrome, gliding down and landing. In other words doing circuits and bumps.

It isn't that the actual landing or take off is difficult in itself, but judgment has to be developed and there is a great deal to judge! For instance, the pupil has to find out the strength and direction of the wind, his speed over the ground, his height and whether he is going to clear the hedge comfortably or whether the instructor's voice is going to come down the telephone: "Put your engine on and go round again." All these important points and many others have to be studied.

During this period the pupil is learning much more than just how to take off and how to land. He is improving his flying all the time. He is beginning to feel that he is really part of the aeroplane and he learns to manoeuvre his machine so as to avoid other aircraft, whether they are in the air near him or sitting on the ground just where he thinks he is going to land.

Then, after what seems like ages to the pupil, I decide he is just about ready to fly solo. At about this stage, he will do a trip with the flight commander or some other instructor who either confirms my view or suggests some weakness which he has spotted and which must be put right before the pupil finds himself in the air alone. When we are quite satisfied about him, the great moment arrives. I undo my straps. "Off you go." I tell him: "One more circuit like the last, but by yourself this time. Don't be afraid to put your engine on and go round again if things don't work out just as they should, but I know you'll be all right." As I get out of the cockpit I secure the straps so that they will not foul the controls; and another fledgling spreads his wings.

I watch him make his circuit, confident in the knowledge that the landing on a pupil's first solo is usually his best so far. When he has landed, he taxis back feeling like a dog with two tails. "Don't get away with the idea that you are a pilot already," I warn him, "you've got a lot to learn yet." However, it would take more than that to damp his present enthusiasm.

So instruction goes on and as each new stage is reached, the pupil goes off to practise solo what he has learnt dual. From time to time he will be taken up by the flight commander or the chief flying instructor for a test. He learns how to put the aeroplane into difficult situations, such as a spin, and how to recover from them. He learns what to do in the event of a sudden engine failure. A forced landing means finding the direction of the wind, selecting a suitable field, and losing height so that the aeroplane can be brought into the field and landed just as on the aerodrome. This needs quite a lot of practice because there is no engine to put on to go round again and have another shot at it. He is taught cross-country navigation by the aid of his compass and map. Every now and then he has to pull a hood over his cockpit and he is taught to fly by the use of instruments only. This enables him eventually to fly long distances through cloud or fog. He is shown how to perform such aerobatics as the loop, slow roll, roll off the top of a loop and others.

And all the time ground subjects and flying are going along side by side, and in a relatively short time he has learnt all that we can teach him and he is ready to go on to his Service Flying Training School.

You may imagine that instructing is a tedious job. Not a bit of it! It's the most interesting job in the world. No two pupils are ever alike. Each requires different handling; for instance, checking the over-confident one, encouraging another who rather lacks confidence, and so on, until eventually the high standard required is reached and the standard is high, as high as ever it was, in spite of the present intensive training. It takes a lot of patience, but it seems a worthwhile job when your ex-pupils come back to visit you with several Messerschmitts to their credit. Good luck to them all.


Flying training in a Tiger Moth ...


... and in North American Harvards.

November, 1940

ATTACK ON LORIENT SUBMARINE BASE

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT

You may remember a rather exciting film called "The Dawn Patrol". If you do, it is just a point of interest for me to begin by saying that I belong to the Royal Air Force Squadron that was represented in it. The squadron dates back to the last war. It is still going strong, taking its share now in the vast work that is being done day and night by the Coastal Command.

Lately, our squadron has been doing its bit in making the ports on the other side of the Channel uncomfortable for their tem¬porary tenants. Cherbourg, Brest and Lorient have been most frequently on our daily lists. Lorient was probably a new one on many people. It was a new one on most of us when we were first told to bomb it.

Our attacks on Lorient are now regular news. Lorient—on the Brittany coast about ninety miles south of Brest—has become a U-boat base and maintenance depot. It isn't giving away any secrets to say that our targets there are power stations, naval yards, slipways, torpedo workshops and so on. Some of us have been so often to Lorient lately that we must know the way into and around it better than its temporary German inhabitants. Now we know every yard of the country and its landmarks. We always see Lorient clearly when we attack it—at dusk or dawn, or in light provided by the moon or by our flares.

And the enemy always gives us a hot reception. All sorts of stuff come up at us—light and heavy shells, flaming red things which we call "onions" and what-not.

The other night the armourers of our Squadron were given their first operational flight. Their job is on the ground—to fit and load our bombs. The idea in taking them with us was that they could study what happens when their bombs burst.

"How did you get on?" one of them was asked afterwards.

"Coo—great stuff," was the reply, "all the colours of the rainbow. Lovely it was from the gallery seat." I don't think I would choose the word "lovely" myself, but let it pass.

I wonder if I can give you a sort of mental picture of how we set about things on one of these raids. An hour before the take-off we assemble in the Operations Room to be told all about the job in hand. Then off everyone goes to attend to his own particular end of things. The observer gets the weather report; a gunner who is also the wireless operator makes certain that the guns are O.K. Then he checks up the recognition signals and the wireless frequencies and sees that the pigeons are in their wicker basket— we always take homing pigeons with us. And the pilot gets into his head all he can about the trip and the targets.

Before we leave the ground I test the microphone which enables me to talk to the gunner in the rear turret and to the rest of the crew.

"Hello, gunner—are you all right behind?"

And then to the observer: "Hello, observer, course to steer, please."

Some of us carry mascots. I always have the joker of a pack of playing cards and a couple of German bullets—relics of being shot up on one trip.

And now come with me over Lorient. As we approach it the observer suddenly shouts: "I see the target—yes, I've got it!" "O.K." I say. "Master switch and fusing switch on!" These are the switches which control the fusing and the release of the bombs. Round just once more to make quite certain. The docks and the outlines of the naval buildings show up a little more clearly. Then I throttle the engines back.

"Running on now," I tell the observer.

"O.K.," he says, "left—left—that's it—steady—a shade right—hold it—NOW!"

He presses the electric button which releases the bombs. The aircraft gives a slight shudder as they go through the doors.

"Bombs gone!" cries the observer.

Down they go, hundredweight after hundredweight of high explosive. My observer is watching for the results. Have we scored hits or just got near misses? I see many bright flashes. Then big flames flick skywards like the fiery tongues of monster serpents. Showers and towers of ruddy sparks burst from the ground.

My observer nearly jumps from his seat, waving his hands in excitement. "We've hit it—we've hit it!" he yells. "We've damned well hit it!" Then home we go—our umpteenth visit to Lorient on the Brittany coast has ended.


A couple of Hurricane pics. First the site of John W.C . Simpson’s crash in his Hurricane in 1940:


February 21, 1940
Last night I had the first crash I've had since I've been in the Service. I am very lucky to be alive.
We were night flying and it was a pitch black night. Something went wrong with my motor soon after I took off. I was terrified, as I was too low to bale out and I knew that I must crash. I have told you, I think, how strong our Hurricanes are. My being alive now is proof of that all right.
It happened very quickly. I kept the aircraft straight and my speed as far as I could see at 100 m.p.h. I couldn't put down the flaps. I just hit the top of a haystack which broke off half my propeller and sent me bouncing up into the air again, then a telegraph pole was cut in half, clean as a whistle, with the top still hanging on the wires. Then into the side of a wood of larch trees. My head felt as if it had come off, and there was blood coming out of me everywhere. The noise was colossal. I was terrified I would burn and somehow got out and ran away from the wreckage. I then passed out on the side of a road. I came to just before they found me—Caesar and Eddie—it took a long time. Caesar's first remark was, " God, he's alive. John, you twirp. I thought you were dead. I've just been to your room and pinched your electric razor !
They were sweet to me then and helped me to the car and sick quarters.
I look pretty bloody as I've broken my nose and my cheekbone and I'm bruised to hell. But I don't have to go to bed, and I'm getting a week's leave after the Doc. has seen me to-night. I have had to wait in case I am concussed.
We looked at the wreckage to-day. It's amazing. There is practically nothing left except the cockpit. I cut down a nice piece of the wood—36 trees.


Members of 43 Squadron in the North of Scotland.
Left to right: Sergeant Buck, Pilot Officer A. Woods-Scawen, Flight Lieutenant C.B. Hull, Flying Officer Wilkinson, Sergeant Garton.

These pics and description from the book ‘Combat Report’ by Hector Bolitho, published in 1943. By the way, does anyone have any info. on JWC Simpson? Did he survive the war? Combat report ends in 1941 and I have not been able to find out anything more about him.

RedToo.

Part 55.

November, 1940

THE FIRST FIGHT WITH THE ITALIAN RAIDERS

BY A CANADIAN FLIGHT COMMANDER

The first raid by the Italian Air Force on Great Britain was an event keenly awaited by the fighter pilots of the Royal Air Force. The luck of the draw fell to a Hurricane squadron. But when the Italians came over that day, the squadron leader, much to his annoyance, was having a day off, and the squadron was led into combat by a Canadian flight commander from Edmonton, Alberta. Here is the story of the fight.

WELL, we started with the usual afternoon blitz, just like any other day during the past three months, and we were ordered up on patrol out to sea. Our job was to join up with another Hurri¬cane squadron, as their bodyguard. When we were about 12,000 feet up, I saw nine planes of a type I had never seen before, coming along. They were in tight "V" formation. I didn't like to rush in bald-headed, until I knew what they were, so the squadron went up above them to have a good look at them. Then I realised that at any rate they were not British, and that was good enough for me. So we went into attack starting with the rear starboard bomber and crossing over to attack the port wing of the formation.

I must say that the Italians as they turned out to be, stood up to it very well. They kept their tight formation and were making for the thick cloud cover at 20,000 feet, but our tactics were to break them up before they could do that and we succeeded. I singled out one of the enemy and gave him a burst. Immediately he went straight up into a loop. I thought he was foxing me as I had never seen a bomber do that sort of thing before. So I followed him when he suddenly went down in a vertical dive. I still followed, waiting for him to pull out. Then I saw a black dot move away from him and a puff like a white mushroom— someone baling out. The next second the bomber seemed to start crumpling up and it suddenly burst into hundreds of small pieces. They fell down to the sea like a snowstorm. I must have killed the pilot. I think he fell back, pulling the stick with him— that's what caused the loop. Then he probably slumped forward, putting the plane into an uncontrollable dive. But what usually happens then is that the wing or the tail falls off, and it was a surprising sight to see the plane just burst into small pieces.

Then I started to climb again and I saw another two of the bombers in the sky. They were mixed up in a fight and were both streaming smoke. At that moment another one shot past me flaming like a torch, and plunged into the sea. After seeing that I thought the battle was over and I could go home, but just as I turned to do so I saw a dog-fight going on up above with another type of aeroplane I had never seen before. They were Fiat fighter biplanes. There must have been about twenty of them milling round with the Hurricanes. I went up to join in the party, but the fighter I singled out saw me coming and went into a quick turn with me on his tail. His plane was very manoeuvrable, but so was the Hurricane and we stuck closely enough together while I got in two or three bursts. It was a long dog-fight, as dog-fights go. We did tight turns, climbing turns and half-rolls till it seemed we would never stop. Neither of us was getting anywhere until one of my bursts seemed to hit him and he started waffling. For a moment he looked completely out of control and then he came in at me and we started all this merry-go-round business over again. I got in two or three more bursts and then ran out of ammunition. That put me in a bit of a fix and I didn't know what to do next. I was afraid if I left his tail he would get on to mine. Then he straightened up—he was just thirty yards ahead and I was a few feet above. At that moment I decided that as I could not shoot him down I would try and knock him out of the sky with my aeroplane. I went kind of hay-wire. It suddenly occurred to me what a good idea it would be to scare the living daylight out of him. I aimed for the centre of his top main plane, did a quick dive and pulled out just before crashing into him. I felt a very slight bump, but I never saw him again and somehow I don't think he got back.

By now the scene had changed a bit. Another squadron of Hurricanes was chasing the Italians all over the sky. I did not know at the time, but I found when I got down that their squadron leader was a great friend of mine from my home town of Edmonton, Alberta.

He bagged a couple in that fight.

And now I thought it's home for me, but the day wasn't over yet. As I was flying back, keeping a good look-out behind, I saw a Hurricane below me, having the same kind of affair with a Fiat as I had just had. I went down and did a dummy head-on attack on the Italian. At 200 yards he turned away and headed out to sea. I thought: "Good, I really can get home this time," but just before I got to the coast, still keeping a good look-out behind, I saw another Hurricane, with three Fiats close together worrying him. So down I went again, feinting another head-on attack, and again when I was about 200 yards away the Italians broke off and headed for home. That really was the end of the battle.

I was a bit worried because my plane had started to vibrate badly, but I managed to land all right. Just as I had got out of my Hurricane and was walking away—my fitter and rigger ran after me saying that I had six inches missing from one of my propeller blades and nine inches from another. All the same, it certainly was a grand day for the squadron.


Re-fuelling and re-arming a Hurricane.

Part 56.

December, 1940

AN UNUSUAL COMBAT AND BALE-OUT

BY A FIGHTER FLIGHT LIEUTENANT

This Flight Lieutenant was awarded the Victoria Cross

THAT day was a glorious day. The sun was shining from a cloudless sky and there was hardly a breath of wind anywhere. Our squadron was going towards Southampton on patrol at 15,000 feet when I saw three Junkers 88 bombers about four miles away flying across our bows. I reported this to our squadron-leader and he replied: "Go after them with your section." So I led my section of aircraft round towards the bombers. We chased hard after them, but when we were about a mile behind we saw the 88s fly straight into a squadron of Spitfires. I used to fly a Spitfire myself and I guessed it was curtains for the three Junkers. I was right and they were all shot down in quick time, with no pickings for us. I must confess I was very disappointed, for I had never fired at a Hun in my life and was longing to have a crack at them.

So we swung round again and started to climb up to 18,000 feet over Southampton, to rejoin our squadron. I was still a long way from the squadron when suddenly, very close in rapid succession, I heard four big bangs. They were the loudest noises I had ever heard, and they had been made by four cannon shells from a Messerschmitt 110 hitting my machine.

The first shell tore through the hood over my cockpit and sent splinters into my left eye. One splinter, I discovered later, nearly severed my eyelid. I couldn't see through that eye for blood. The second cannon shell struck my spare petrol tank and set it on fire. The third shell crashed into the cockpit and tore off my right trouser leg.

The fourth shell struck the back of my left shoe. It shattered the heel of the shoe and made quite a mess of my left foot. But I didn't know anything about that, either, until later. Anyway, the effect of these four shells was to make me dive away to the right to avoid further shells. Then I started cursing myself for my carelessness. What a fool I had been, I thought, what a fool!

I was just thinking of jumping out when suddenly a Messerschmitt 110 whizzed under me and got right in my gun-sights. Fortunately, no damage had been done to my windscreens or sights and when I was chasing the Junkers, I had switched everything on. So everything was set for a fight.

I pressed the gun button, for the Messerschmitt was in nice range; I plugged him first time and I could see my tracer bullets entering the German machine. He was going like mad, twisting and turning as he tried to get away from my fire. So I pushed the throttle wide open. Both of us must have been doing about 400 m.p.h. as we went down together in a dive. First he turned left, then right, then left and right again. He did three turns to the right and finally a fourth turn to the left. I remember shouting out loud at him when I first saw him: "I'll teach you some manners, you Hun," and I shouted other things as well. I knew I was getting him nearly all the time I was firing.

By this time it was pretty hot inside my machine from the burst petrol tank. I couldn't see much flame, but I reckon it was there all right. I remember looking once at my left hand which was keeping the throttle open. It seemed to be in the fire itself and I could see the skin peeling off it. Yet I had little pain. Uncon¬sciously too, I had drawn my feet up under my parachute on the seat, to escape the heat, I suppose.

Well, I gave the Hun all I had, and the last I saw of him was when he was going down, with his right wing lower than the left wing. I gave him a parting burst and as he had disappeared, started thinking about saving myself. I decided it was about time I left the aircraft and baled out, so I immediately jumped up from my seat. But first of all I hit my head against the frame-work of the hood, which was all that was left. I cursed myself for a fool, pulled the hood back (wasn't I relieved when it slid back beautifully) and jumped up again. Once again I bounced back into my seat, for I had forgotten to undo the straps holding me in. One of them snapped and so I only had one to undo. Then I left the machine.

I suppose I was about 12 to 15,000 feet when I baled out. Immediately I started somersaulting downwards and after a few turns like that I found myself diving head first for the ground. After a second or two of this, I decided to pull the rip-cord. The result was that I immediately straightened up and began to float down. Then an aircraft—a Messerschmitt, I think—came tearing past me. I decided to pretend I was dead, and hung limply by the parachute straps. The Messerschmitt came back once, and I kept my eyes closed, but I didn't get the bullets I was half expecting. I don't know if he fired at me; the main thing is that I wasn't hit.

While I was coming down like that I had a look at myself. I could see the bones of my left hand showing through the knuckles.

Then for the first time I discovered I'd been wounded in the foot. Blood was oozing out of the lace-holes of my left boot. My right hand was pretty badly burned, too. So I hung down a bit longer and then decided to try my limbs, just to see if they would work—thank goodness they did. I still had my oxygen mask over my face, but my hands were in too bad a state to take it off. I tried to, but I couldn't manage it.

I found, too, that I had lost one trouser-leg and the other was badly torn and my tunic was just like a lot of torn rags, so I wasn't looking very smart. Then, after a bit more of this dangling down business, I began to ache all over and my hands and legs began to hurt a lot.

When I got lower, I saw I was in danger of coming down in the sea. I knew I didn't stand an earthly if I did, because I wouldn't have been able to swim a stroke with my hands like that. So I wriggled about a bit and managed to float inland. Then I saw a high tension cable below me and thought it would finish me if I hit that. So I wriggled a bit more and aimed at a nice open field.

When I was about 100 feet from the ground I saw a cyclist and heard him ring his bell. I was surprised to hear the bicycle-bell and realised that I had been coming down in absolute silence. I bellowed at the cyclist, but I don't suppose he heard me. Finally, I touched down in the field and fell over. Fortunately it was a still day. My parachute just floated down and stayed down without dragging me along, as they sometimes do.

I had a piece of good news almost immediately. One of the people who came along and who had watched the combat, said they had seen the Messerschmitt 110 dive straight into the sea, so it hadn't been such a bad day after all.


Flight Lieutenant J. B. Nicolson, V.C.


Press Release from the Air Ministry in 1940:

AIR MINISTRY NEWS SERVICE

NOT TO BE PUBLISHED BEFORE THE MORNING NEWSPAPERS OF NOVEMBER 15TH,1940, OR BROADCAST BEFORE 0700 HOURS B.S.T. ON THAT DATE.

FIRST V.C. AWARDED TO FIGHTER PILOT.

ROYAL AIR FORCE AWARD NO.132.

The Victoria Cross which has been awarded to Flight Lieutenant J.B. Nicolson (A.M. Bulletin No.2255) is the first V.C. to be won by a fighter pilot since the war began.
He has gained his V.C. for refusing to jump from a blazing Hurricane until he had destroyed his enemy although it was his first fight and he had been twice wounded. For forty-eight hours doctors fought for his life but now he has almost completely recovered.

Flight Lieutenant Nicolson, who is 23, was on patrol near the Southampton area with his squadron on the early afternoon of August 16th. He saw three Junkers 88 bombers crossing the bows of the squadron about four miles away, and he was detailed to chase a Junkers with his section.

He got within a mile of them, and then he saw a squadron of Spitfires attack and shoot them down, so he turned back to join his squadron, climbing from 15,000 to 18,000 feet.
Suddenly, as he himself said, there were four big bangs inside his aircraft. They were cannon shells from a Messerschmitt 110. One tore through the hood and sent splinters to his left eye. The second cannon shell struck his spare petrol tank which exploded, and set the machine on fire. The third shell crashed into the cockpit and tore away his trouser leg. The fourth hit his left boot and wounded his heel.

As Flight Lieutenant Nicolson turned to avoid further shots into his burning aeroplane, he suddenly found that the Me110 had overtaken him and was right in his gunsight. His dashboard was shattered and was, in his own words, "Dripping like treacle" with the heat. The Messerschmitt was two hundred yards in front and both were diving at about 400 m.p.h.
As Flight Lieutenant Nicolson pressed the gun button he could see his right thumb blistering in the heat. He could also see his left hand, which was holding the throttle open, blistering in the flames.

The Messerschmitt zig-zagged this way and that trying to avoid the hail of fire from the blazing Hurricane. By this time the heat was so great that Nicolson had to put his feet on the seat beneath his parachute. He continued the flight for several minutes until the Messerschmitt disappeared in a steep dive. Eyewitnesses later reported that they had seen it crash a few miles out to sea.

On losing sight of the enemy, Nicolson attempted to jump out, but struck his head on the hood above him. He immediately threw back the hood and tried to jump again. Then he realised he had not undone the strap holding him in the cockpit. One of these straps broke. He undid the other, and at last succeeded in jumping out.

He dived head first, and after several somersaults in the air pulled the rip-cord with considerable difficulty. It took him something like twenty minutes to reach the ground.
A Messerschmitt came screaming past, and as he floated down, he pretended that he was dead. When the Me. had gone he noticed for the first time that his left heel had been struck. Blood was oozing out of the lace holes in his boots. He tried to see what other injuries he had received and found that he was able to move all his limbs.

At one moment as he was coming down, he thought he would hit a high tension cable but managed to manoeuvre in the sky so that he missed it. Reaching the ground, he saw a cyclist and managed to land in a field near to him. When help came Flight Lieutenant Nicolson immediately dictated a telegram to his wife in Yorkshire to say that he had been shot down but was safe.

He looked at his watch, and found it still ticking though the glass had melted and the strap had burned to a thread.

"When I saw the Messerschmitt in front of me I remember shouting out, 'I'll teach you some manners you Hun'", he said later, "I am glad I got him, though perhaps pilots who have had more experience of air fighting would have done the wise thing and baled out immediately the aircraft caught fire. I did not think of anything at the time but to shoot him down.

"Curiously enough, although the heat inside must have been intense, in the excitement I did not feel much pain. In fact, I remember watching the skin being burnt off my left hand. All I was concerned about was keeping the throttle open to get my first Hun. I must confess that I felt all in as I came down. I confess too that I might faint, but I did not lose consciousness at all. Thinking of the shock I know follows severe burning I asked the doctors who examined me a shot of morphine just in case.

"All I am anxious about now is to get back to flying and have another crack at the Germans. After all, I feel that after four years training should qualify me for more than one Hun, and I want to have my fair share.

Flight Lieutenant Nicolson, who joined the R.A.F. in 1936 was posted to a Spitfire squadron the following year and stayed with it until he was given command of a flight with his present Hurricane squadron. He was married a year before the war broke out. A month after his fight, his wife gave birth to a son.

His parents live in Buckingham Road, Shoreham.

The young V.C. is about to join his wife and baby for three weeks' leave, but will have to return to the convalescent hospital for further treatment to his hands before he can be pronounced fit.

Last night he took part in the hospital concert, crooning and playing a tin whistle as one of the "Harmony Boys".


Directorate of Public Relations,
Air Ministry,
King Charles St.,
Whitehall, S.W.1.
Issued to M.O.I. at 1553 hours.
Issued by M.O.I. at 1740 hours.
14th November, 1940.

Part 57.

December, 1940

THE R.A.F. BOMBS A U-BOAT

BY A CANADIAN FLYING OFFICER OF COASTAL COMMAND

FOR some time we had been looking forward to catching a U-boat sitting as pretty as the one we attacked the other day. We had sighted U-boats several times before, while we were patrolling the North Sea, but too often they were able to spot us and submerge before we could attack, and then we had to rely on damage done to them when they were beneath the water.

This time we attacked one just as it was stepping into its own back-yard. It was the sort of chance that we in Coastal Command dream of.

Our reconnaissance patrol of three Lockheed Hudsons was near the Norwegian coast, and we had just turned to come back, when we found the U-boat slinking home. We were flying at about 7,000 feet in clear weather, when we saw it only a few miles away. Its outline was unmistakable. We were up-sun, so our position was ideal and I hoped we could deliver a shock attack before the German look-out men saw us.

We wasted no time. "Tich," my co-pilot, was flying at the time, and we turned towards the U-boat, leading the other two aircraft. We went into a spiral dive, and I climbed down into the nose and checked the bombing gear.

I don't think the Jerry realised he was being attacked until he saw us screaming down with our bomb doors open. It was then far too late for him to submerge, but the gun on his conning-tower opened fire at us from about 300 yards. We felt the aircraft being hit two or three times, but carried on with the attack and released the bombs in a stick. One of the bombs scored a direct hit on him just abaft the conning-tower and others burst close beside his hull. We passed directly over the U-boat while we were still diving.

As Tich tried to level out, he pulled the stick right back. Nothing happened! The elevator had been hit and was quite useless. The sea was coming up at us pretty fast and the question was—could we pull out before we hit the water? I had my fingers crossed! But Tich knows his job—we've been in some tight spots together—and he got to work on the tail trimmer. This is manipulated by a little handle like that on an old-fashioned telephone. Tich was winding away for all he was worth, and at the same time opening the throttles to get the maximum help from the engines.

It all happened so fast that I hardly had time to appreciate our narrow squeak, and a few seconds later we managed to manoeuvre into a climbing turn.

The other two Hudsons had followed behind us, delivering further attacks. We turned round just in time to see the last of the U-boat. The other bombs had dropped right beside it and we saw its stern lift right out of the water. It submerged nose first and I saw its fins and elevators disappear in a swirl of oil and bubbles. We thought it most unlikely that it would ever return to its base. And that was that.

So then we started on our flight home, which we knew would be a tricky business without the elevator. As we left the U-boat, Tich shook the stick backwards and forwards, and laughed at me when nothing happened. (Tich, I may say, has a particularly broad and infectious grin that goes right across his face.) I checked the petrol tanks and found one was empty and another leaking. Nearly 150 gallons had so far gone with the wind. I laughed back at Tich!

But we found that by using the tail trimmer we could keep a fairly straight course, although we were porpoising a bit. The awkward moment, of course, was going to be when we tried to land the aircraft in one piece. So on the way back we talked over how it was to be done. With no elevator, the difficulty would be, of course, to stop the aircraft gliding straight into the ground, for the elevator determines your angle of flight—climbing, gliding or flying level.

So we decided to split up the controls between us. I was to work the wing-flaps and throttles, while Tich would make the best possible use of ailerons and rudders. The tail trimmer, which had helped us to pull out of the dive on the submarine, wouldn't be much use now because of the slower landing speed.

Thank goodness our remaining petrol was sufficient to take us back to our base, and on arriving there we circled round to land. The medical officer, who is inclined to be a bit pessimistic, was out on the aerodrome with his ambulance, but we didn't plan to give him any business this time. Tich was quite rude about it. He seemed to regard the doctor's precautions as a reflection on his piloting abilities!

As we approached to land, the rear gunner left his turret and jettisoned the door to facilitate jumping out if it became necessary, but, thanks to our pre-arranged plan, everything went well. We had a hectic few minutes, but in the end landed very nicely. I have seen plenty worse landings with everything working properly. The other two aircraft had escorted us home, and were very relieved that we got down whole. As a matter of fact, so were we!


A U-boat surrenders to aircraft.

Part 57. Sorry it’s late – RL intervened.

December, 1940

A SQUADRON LEADER DESCRIBES HIS SQUADRON'S BATTLE WITH THE ITALIANS

The commanding officer of 603 (City of Edinburgh) Auxiliary Fighter Squadron, who gives the following account of his most successful day, has fought with the squadron right from the beginning of the war. When the first raiders appeared over British soil in 1939, his squadron was the first to go into action and he himself was one of the first to open fire on enemy aircraft over this country, lie was a pilot officer then. Now he has been in command for several months—months during which the squadron has added over 100 victims to their previous score.

IN this particular battle I was largely in the position of a spectator, so I can tell you all about it. I was leading the squadron when my engine began to misfire and splutter. So I called up one of my flight-commanders and told him to lead while I broke away and tried to clear my engine. By diving and roaring the engine, I managed to make it run smoothly again and then took up position at the rear of the squadron.

We had taken off at about eleven-forty that morning. It was a sunny day with a slight ground haze which developed into mist from 18,000 feet up to about 26,000 feet. We were on a routine patrol with another squadron and after patrolling for forty or fifty minutes we were ordered to go here and there to investigate various raids which were reported over land and near the coast. While we were climbing through some cloud we lost touch with the other squadron.

We carried on alone and were on a southerly course approach¬ing Dover, when we were warned to look out for a formation of Italian aircraft. Every man was immediately on the alert. By this time I was at the back of the squadron and I heard the formation leader suddenly report aircraft dead ahead of us. At the same time someone else reported unidentified aircraft to the east, but the leader wisely held our course to fly towards the aircraft he had already seen. After a couple of minutes we saw the enemy aircraft flying south-west down the Channel. They were still some distance away and were 1,000 feet below us. They were Italian fighters—C.R. 42s—and were well over the sea flying at about 20,000 feet. When I first had a good look at them they gave me the impression of a party out on a quiet little jaunt. There were about twenty of them, flying along quite happily in good formation.

When the leader gave the order to attack and told us to sweep round and down on their tails, we were in a very advantageous position. Our machines must be about 100 m.p.h. faster than the Italian fighters and it was dead easy to overtake them and blaze away. They were flying in a sort of wide fan-like formation and when we went to attack each of our pilots selected his particular target. You can imagine how effective the first few dives were when I tell you that one of our pilots at one time saw six Italian fighters either on fire or spinning down towards the sea.

The Italians looked quite toy-like in their brightly-coloured camouflage and I remember thinking that it seemed almost a shame to shoot down such pretty machines. I must have been wrong, for the pilot who saw six going down at the same time said afterwards that it was a glorious sight. But I must say this about the Eye-Ties: they showed fight in a way the Germans have never done with our squadron. It is true, though that they seemed amateurish in their reactions. By that I mean they were slow to realise that we were anywhere near them until it was too late. Another thing, they kept their formation very well, but it didn't save them.

After a short while the Italians were dodging this way and that to escape our aircraft as best they could. One of them broke formation and turned towards France. I chased him and fired at him several times. I believe I hit him, too, and would have finished him off if my engine hadn't begun to splutter again when I was half-way across the Channel. So I left him to limp home while I turned towards the English coast to find the rest of the battle. It had vanished by this time, so I came home. The whole fight lasted only ten or fifteen minutes.


The long hot summer of 1940.

Part 58.

December, 1940

A CHANNEL CONVOY

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT OF BALLOON COMMAND

Before the war the waters round our shores were full of merchant vessels, carrying what is known as coast-wise traffic. They called, I suppose, at almost every port around our shores, picking up a cargo here, landing a cargo there. The particular coast traffic with which I am concerned is what is known as the Channel Convoy and we help in escorting merchant vessels through the Straits of Dover and down the Channel. Before the collapse of France this was a reasonably easy task, but nowadays you see, there is a certain difference of opinion between Mr. Winston Churchill and Adolf Hitler as to whom this stretch of water actually belongs to.

Now, as you know, the Navy are past-masters at escorting convoys; they know every trick of the trade and should Jerry's fertile imagination create some new situation which had not previously arisen, they would soon adapt themselves to deal with their novelty. One new situation that he has created however, is that of the dive-bomber and whereas this method of attack is in no way confined to this stretch of water, it is certainly much more likely to be met with than in most other parts. Now, a ship at sea, when all said and done, is really a very small target, providing the attacking planes are not allowed to dive too low, and it is here where we of the Balloon Barrage do our bit. Each convoy is accompanied by vessels of the Royal Navy, carrying balloons; these are placed at vantage points amongst the convoy, thus, in a sense, the escorted vessels are placed inside a box, with the Navy acting as the four walls of the box and the balloons acting as a lid. You may wonder how efficacious are these balloons in a dive-bombing attack. Actually I have never spoken to a German pilot so as to know what they think of them, but I have discussed the subject on many occasions with our own pilots and they have invariably told me that they hate them like hell, treat them with the greatest respect and avoid them like the plague. I must say that from my own personal experience, when Jerry has made an attack on us, he seems to concur with our own pilots' views, as invariably he sends Me. 109s over first to attempt to shoot down the balloons, thereby making way for the dive-bombers following very close behind them. We have our own method of competing with those 109s and I must say it seems extremely effective, as on many occasions the bombers have arrived only to find all the balloons still flying, with the result that dive-bombing has to be turned into precision bombing, which considerably reduces their accuracy. To give you some idea of what one of these trips is like I want you to imagine that you are with us on one of these convoys. It is about tea-time and we are heading south towards the Straits; the sun is setting over the English coast and we wallow along at a steady pre-arranged speed. The black-and-red colours of the merchant vessels are flanked by the sleek grey lines of the escort vessels. Overhead the silver of the balloons shines in the fading light. Every man is on the "qui vive", every gun is manned, and it would be idle to deny that we are all keyed up. Suddenly out of the setting sun three planes are spotted, guns are trained on them, but our fire is held—are they hostile or friendly? In a matter of seconds there is a roar, and it is seen that each plane is diving at a different balloon. All our guns open fire and the dusk is lit up with hundreds of tracer bullets. By this time the planes are turning again from the east and preparing for a second attack; once more they come and once more hell is let loose from every ship. It is clear that the barrage from the escort vessels is too much for Jerry and he makes off towards the French coast, having failed to destroy the balloons.

At this stage it is a safe bet that the dive-bombers are lurking not very far away, and sure enough, in a very few minutes there is a roar from a very great height as eight or sixteen or twenty-four planes swoop down on the convoy. But things have not gone according to their plans, for the balloons are still flying and they cannot come low to drop their bombs, and, in fact, their dive-bombing is turned into precision bombing. This sudden upset, coupled with the fact that the pilots must keep a weather eye on the balloons and the cables, upsets their accuracy and their bombs fall harmlessly into the sea. They very often fall extremely near to their object, but direct hits have been turned into near misses and no damage is done, and with a zoom the planes return to their bases, many of them, it is hoped, bearing scars to remind them of where they have been. For a moment the tension is relaxed and it is now nearly dark and we are approaching the Straits. Not a light is to be seen, not a cigarette glows, as we creep on steadily, running according to schedule. At this stage we are more or less convinced that the big guns on the coast ought to have been informed of our approach and as the steward said to me on a recent trip: "Will you have your tea served before the shelling or afterwards, sir?" The sun has completely gone and the moon is throwing far too much light on the sea for our liking. The white cliffs of England can be clearly seen and the searchlights light up the sky of the French coast. Suddenly, large flashes are seen on the coast and streams of flaming onions rise out of the sky. More flashes follow and we know that our Bomber Command are having their private party. Apparently no one is taking any notice of us—we hope. Suddenly there is a loud crash and a great column of water rises into the air some distance ahead on the port bow and we know that the minesweepers are doing their work. By now we are in the narrowest part of the Straits. Flashes of bombs from the French coast, the stream of anti-aircraft tracers and the number of searchlights increase, while on the English coast searchlights leap into action as we hear planes pass overhead. Sometimes it seems that the searchlights from the two coasts almost meet above, while we, silent and unobserved, creep down the archway they form. Being optimists, we still believe nobody knows we are there—but this must be numbered among famous last hopes, for from the French coast four wicked yellow flashes light up the sky, and we know that the guns on the French coast have started. The Commander on the bridge invariably turns round and says: "Starting counting chaps," and some seventy-five seconds later four enormous crumps are heard and four great columns of water shoot up into the air. And so it goes on until the whole convoy has steamed out of range of the guns, and we wait for any other surprises Jerry may have for us until dawn breaks when we eagerly count up the ships and satisfy ourselves that all the flock is safe. Then we continue our stately wallow to our appointed destination, whilst Jerry has another "go" by air or not, as the case may be, and I can tell you that it is a grand feeling when it is all over and one has the privilege of seeing the merchantmen, laden to their eyebrows, safely home and knowing that Mr. Winston Churchill is right and that it is his Channel.


Small barrage balloons, called kite balloons, being ferried to a convoy leaving port; the boats collect the balloons from any inward bound ships using them. RAF personnel, stationed at all the major ports, maintained and repaired the equipment. Kite balloons were introduced after the Battle of Britain to try to prevent some of the attacks on shipping suffered at that time: dive-bombing by Junkers 87 Stuka dive-bombers or low flying swoops on ship’s masts.


This Ju 87 from II./StG 77 made a forced landing at Ham Manor Golf Course, near Angmering. That evening the Home Guard men left the crash site, and by next morning souvenir hunters had stripped the aircraft bare.