Part 69

January, 1941

A STATION COMMANDER LOOKS BACK

BY A GROUP CAPTAIN OF FIGHTER COMMAND

I HAVE been asked to tell you something of what goes on at a Fighter Station. I'll try to do this by "looking back" over the War in so far as my station was concerned. We all knew, of course, it was going to be an Air War, and you can imagine, therefore, our intense excitement when war was actually declared. But how different those first seven or eight months turned out to be. There was no immediate "blitz", and my pilots spent their time incessantly chasing the odd elusive Hun far out over the North Sea, with only here and there a success. I remember —in those early days, the shrieks of almost childish joy with which the very sight of an enemy aeroplane was hailed by our boys in the air, and the tears of anguish when one got away by diving into clouds after a long chase, far out over the North Sea.

Little did we know then that the Hun was progressively to switch the whole weight of his Air Force—on to a single objec¬tive . . . and our turn was not yet. Little did we know then of the intensive air fighting that was so soon to come.

And then came a red-letter day. May 16th, saw the first Spitfire Squadron leave my station to make an offensive sweep over the Continent. Two hours later the squadron returned, having patrolled as far north as Ostend. The enemy had not been engaged, but throughout the whole station there was a feeling of satisfaction and anticipation—that at last things were begin¬ning to move; and a few days later, on a similar patrol, a Junkers 88 was shot down in a smother of sand near Flushing. ... I remember the high excited voice, the breathless excitement of the youngster as he "hared" home to report in person. His little dance of joy on the aerodrome as I met him—bright-eyed— indescribably happy.

Less than a week later was to see the great Battle of Dunkirk, and the evacuation of our Army in the face of the whole might of the German Air Force. How can I begin to describe those momentous days? What a target those beaches were—right on his own door-step . . . crowded with the flower of the British Army—and the sea between these shores and the Dunkirk jetty —stiff with troops in every conceivable kind of boat, barge, tug and paddle-steamer—until the way home looked for all the world, as one of my pilots described it to me, "like Piccadilly in the rush-hour".

What a task—our fighter squadrons had to keep the bombers away from those beaches—from the ships loading up—from the long procession home.

I wish I could give you the picture as I saw it. How heroic¬ally they fought—from the dark of four in the morning to the dark of eleven at night out and back, out and back, facing the whole might of the German Air Force—protecting a target such as the Hun must have dreamed about.

For eleven days, hour after hour, my squadrons fought him away from those beaches, and from dropping his bombs . . . fought him—heavily outnumbered. Load after load of bombs were jettisoned harmlessly in the sea as our Fighters went into the attack, and many a bomber fell with them—whilst the unarmoured Messerschmitt fighter of those days were "easy meat"—and the "bags" obtained were terrific. On one day alone my station destroyed thirty-one enemy aircraft, and during those eleven days my squadron alone destroyed one hundred and twenty, and a further seventy-five so badly damaged that they probably never reached their home bases. Nice work that, when one remembers that we were fighting with every tactical dis¬advantage, fighting over enemy territory, and against odds of often seven and even ten to one, and yet our losses were less than one-tenth of the confirmed casualties inflicted on the enemy.

But what a strain it was—a strain that could be seen in the faces of my boys, as towards the end of those eleven days, they went into action dizzy with fatigue—but well knowing in their young hearts how much depended upon them.

But they came out of it—as they went into it, with a light heart and a smile—and there was never a day so grim that my pilots failed to make it less grim, by their spontaneous humour— often spoken to themselves in the air. . . . What a joy it was to me, directing their efforts in my Operations Room, to hear—in the middle of a dog-fight—the radio silence broken with a "Oh! Boy, look at that so-and-so going down", or the solicitude for each other: "Look out, George, there's a 109 on your tail," and the calm, unhurried: "O.K. Pal," of the reply. Perhaps the following incident may give you some idea of the spirit in which our pilots sailed into the enemy.

One of my Squadron Leaders had been shot down on Calais aerodrome, which was expected to fall at any moment into the hands of the Hun. It seemed just possible, if there was no delay, to pick him up before he was captured, and so I sent out the only two-seater I had, an unarmed and vividly painted Training machine. I sent a couple of Spitfires also to escort it there and back. It landed all right at Calais, and as there was a lot of cloud overhead one of the Spitfires stayed above, whilst the other remained below.

The Spitfires were in radio touch with me, and in a few minutes, this is what I heard: "Hey, Al, there's a whole horde of 109s arriving", and the reply from the Spitfire below, "O.K., Johnnie, keep 'em busy, I'll be up in a minute". But the 109s, nine of them, dived past the "above-guard" and on to the tail of the Training machine, which had just taken off with the missing squadron-leader on board.

The pilot of the Trainer "hoicked" about all over the sky in a frantic effort to shake the enemy off his tail. By this time though, our two Spitfires had got amongst the 109s and proceeded to shoot down three in flames; several more were probably destroyed but were not actually seen to crash.

The Trainer meanwhile had nipped back on to the aerodrome again, the occupants taking cover in a ditch. The surviving 109s made off, leaving our two boys in complete possession; but with no ammunition and little petrol left, they could but join up, wave good-bye, and set course for home.

Over the Channel, homeward bound, suddenly I heard this bit of chat: "Hey, Johnnie, your machine is full of holes", and the reply, "O.K., keep going, I'll have a look at you". There was a pause, and then: "You're just as bad yourself", and the reply, "I don't give a so and so—I'm going to do a slow roll. Boy, am I happy?"

The unarmed Trainer took off from Calais later, an hour before it might have been captured by the Hun, and, unescorted, hedge-hopped its way safely home.

And, so with the 4th June, the Dunkirk days were over. What a difference the complete collapse of France which followed meant to us. Now we were faced with the enemy a few miles across the water, and rapidly occupying aerodromes all along the French and Belgian coasts. From these bases—from June to the begin¬ning of August—he concentrated his attacks on our shipping. Often my squadrons were engaging odds of anything up to ten to one, and rarely less than five to one, but in six weeks, fighters from my station added a further one hundred and thirty-five enemy aircraft destroyed, together with another sixty probables to their "bag".

I remember during this period that one of our squadrons, which was in four engagements on one day, destroyed twenty enemy aircraft, for a loss of only two of their own pilots. One pilot "wrote-off" five Huns all in a row on the same day. Another two lads between them got six 109s and shot up a German E-boat in the Channel for good measure.

And then suddenly in mid-August, the Hun switched his offen¬sive against our shipping, and for about a month launched a bitter and relentless attack against our fighter aerodromes, admit¬ting by this change of tactics, that our fighters were getting the upper hand of him, and that his only hope was to smash them and break their morale.

By sheer weight of numbers he hoped to do this, and to blot out the "hornet's nests", which alone stood between him and the daylight annihilation of London. Hundreds of bombers, supported by high flying fighters, came over day after day—but more and more of the all-important bombers fell to my squadrons, and still we stayed on top. Steadily we took our toll, until in the end even the Hun couldn't take any more. During this short period we added another one hundred and twenty-five destroyed and from the air the Thames Estuary and Kent could be seen strewn with his wreckage.

I hope I'm not giving you the impression that all this was "just too easy"—it wasn't . . . here and there, we had to "take a bit" ourselves. I well remember the days when his bombers got through . . . and fairly blew blazes out of my station—on one occasion twice in one day, until the whole place was rocking. I remember thinking after each attack how incredible it was that so many bombs could fall all together—produce such an inferno of noise—blot out the station and aerodrome with their black and yellow smoke, in so short a space of time . . . and yet, when the smoke cleared, do so little real damage. But then, we were always a lucky station. I remember every man and woman "turning to" and filling in the hundreds of craters, rushing round in circles organizing the labour—"rounding up" steam-rollers from near and fat. I remember also the fabulous bills that came in to me afterwards for free beer which I had promised . . . but it was well worth it—we were never out of action for a single day.

And then, about the 7th September, the Hun ceased his attacks on our fighter aerodromes. From then on throughout September he threw the whole weight of his attacking forces against London. Over came the same large formations in broad daylight, but now, with a single objective—London.

What a party that was! and what a beating was administered to his Luftwaffe! Do you remember such days as the nth, 15th and 27th of September, when our fighter squadrons shot down well over three hundred enemy aircraft on those three days? And that total does not include those who managed to limp home with a packet of trouble on board, or failed and fell in the sea.

When October broke the Hun had had enough of daylight raiding, and from then onwards took to the night bombing of London and elsewhere; contenting himself by day with swarming over Kent with enormous numbers of his high flying fighters— some of which carried bombs. These "tip-and-run" raids, mostly at 30,000 feet and over, were designed to wear out our pilots and were more difficult to deal with. These two months were, comparatively speaking, bad ones for my station, but somehow we managed to chalk up another eighty-two destroyed and thirty probables. This "falling off" in our batting average was relieved, however, by one or two amusing features. The Eyeties showed themselves. One day they ventured too near the Thames Estuary, and I swung one of my squadrons on to them. I asked the squadron leader afterwards why there was such complete radio silence once he had sighted the enemy. His reply was: "Well, sir, when I saw who they were, I was quite speechless with surprise—and before you could say Jack Robinson we'd got seven of them."

This same squadron a few days later was on patrol in the Maidstone area when the Naval Authorities at Dover rang up and said that there was a solitary German bomber "inconvenienc¬ing" our shipping in the Thames Estuary.

"Could we deal with it?" they asked. We said we would be delighted to, and as there was nothing else German about, the whole squadron was sent to intercept him—and a "free for all" followed as he raced for home. But he was too late, and was shot down in the sea.

I heard about his fate by radio from the squadron leader, and rang up Dover to inform them that we had disposed of their "inconvenient" bomber—a Dornier 17.

I asked that a boat should be sent out to pick up the crew— before the Germans, themselves, rescued them to fly again. "All right," came the reply, "but is this the Hun I phoned you about a few minutes ago?"

On my replying "Yes," he rang off with a — "What service!"

And so I come to the end of my story and as I look back what a glorious fifteen months these have been. Little did I dream when 1 took over my station, of the history that would be made there. Eight hundred enemy aircraft accounted for—five hundred and twenty odd destroyed, and nearly three hundred probables.

As I look back—what memories come crowding in, and of this cherished store—what are the things I like most to remember?

First of all I like to remember with a grateful heart, what a privilege it has been to serve and live amongst the people of my station. Of the happy spirit that permeates my station—and all those unsung airmen and airwomen who have worked so unceasingly—so uncomplainingly, day and night to keep the air¬screws turning. Their loyalty and confidence in me, which has made my work such a joy.

I like to remember, and if I may, to thank all those kind people who, anonymously, have sent cigarettes, sweets and other comforts for my pilots and my people. So many came from the East-end of London—surely no better tribute to my pilots.

Of them, I like to remember, their simple modesty, and the way they could always raise a laugh, as, over their half cans of beer at the end of each interminable day's fighting in the summer —they swopped experiences—tired to death but unconquerable of spirit.

Do you remember those understanding, inspiring, and surely immortal words of Mr. Winston Churchill: "Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few." I do, for I have seen the valour of their ways.


Pilots of No. 610 Squadron at Hawkinge on July 29th 1940. Standing extreme left is Pilot Officer Stan Norris, who later the same day, forced-landed in a Spitfire damaged in combat. Standing fourth from the right is Sergeant Norman Ramsay. July the 29th was his 21st birthday. Both survived the war.


James ‘Ginger’ Lacey brought down more German aircraft than anyone else during the Battle of Britain with a tally of 18. In July 1940 he was awarded a parachute and scarf in recognition of his actions in bringing down a Heinkel which had bombed Buckingham Palace. He is photographed wearing the parachute and scarf made specially for him. The scarf bore all the names of the workers in Australia who made the parachute for him.

Part 70.

January, 1941

RAID ON ITALY

BY A WING COMMANDER CO. OF A HEAVY BOMBER SQUADRON

AT two-thirty on the afternoon before this raid which I am going to describe, the squadron was called together. I called out the names of the pilots and this is briefly what I told them: "We are on Italy to-night. The primary target is the oil refinery and storage tank at Porto Marghera, Venice. This is one of the most important targets in Italy and it is our job to blot it out. The distance is about seven hundred miles each way allowing for no strays, and as you know, it means crossing the Alps at 17,000 feet. The vital part of the target—the refinery itself, is comparatively small and is situated on a small peninsula. The amount of petrol you will carry will be enough to get you there and back with a good margin in hand, but watch your petrol consumption carefully. On your return there is likely to be fog at base and you may have to be diverted to aerodromes rather further away. You will be returning at dawn.

"Take all these things into account and decide for yourselves how low you can allow to come down to bomb over the other side of the Alps, remembering the lower you go the higher you've got to climb to get back over them on your return, with resultant higher petrol consumption. I want to stress that the target is a vital one and it is going to be a terrible waste of effort if we fly all that distance and then don't make absolutely certain of getting it."

That, as I said, is briefly what I told my squadron at two-thirty that afternoon. The short account of the trip that I'm now going to give you is told merely as one of the pilots who took part in the raid and something very like it might equally well have been given by anyone of the others. At nine o'clock I was sitting in my aircraft warming up the engine when an order was received to shut off engines and stand by for further instructions. I thought: "Well, that's as far as we shall go on this trip. Here am I all dressed up like a Christmas tree and nowhere to go." But about fifteen minutes later, the order came through that we were to go, so we started the engines again and eventually took off. Conditions then were rather bad. We got on to our course and climbed steadily until we got above the clouds over the English Channel. We saw no ground at all until we crossed the Rhine Valley. Here the clouds had cleared and with an almost full moon and snow on the ground it was as bright as day and we could see the peaks of the Alps many miles ahead of us. We began to climb—using oxygen now of course—until we reached 17,000 feet where the rarefied air was so clear that one could almost see from one end to the other of the Alpine range. It was a rather awe-inspiring sight with the valleys all filled with fog and those great jagged snow-covered peaks sticking out; like a popular conception perhaps of Antarctica, made more realistic by the intense cold.

As we came over the Alps the fog seemed to stretch away into the Lombardy plains and I began to wonder whether our flight was going to be a fruitless one. However, the fog gradually gave way to haze, and the haze, as we went on, gave way to glorious visibility. I was losing height all this time until we were 6,000 feet, at which height we picked up the Adriatic, and there was Venice on our right with the Lido stretching away beyond it. It was the most perfect night imaginable and I must say that, as a night-bomber pilot, accustomed to the cover of darkness, I felt terribly naked but not ashamed, and sailed sedately along in almost daylight conditions in our monster aircraft.

We flew round the area for five or ten minutes and then I decided that a low-level attack was indicated. We came down almost to ground level to the north-east of the target and flew towards it, passing just to the side of a largish fort where two sentries fired at us with rifles. On the way down I had given orders to my two gunners that they were to open fire on anyone who opened fire on us. I only hope those two sentries went to ground very quickly. We flew straight over the centre of Mestre—the town which lies at the far end of the causeway leading to Venice and next to Porto Marghera. We were flying just above the rooftops. The streets were empty save for a few people. We heaved the aircraft up over a line of factory chimneys and there was the target in front of us. I climbed rapidly to 700 feet; the bomb aimer selected the biggest bomb we had, a really huge one, and let it go at the right place. The result was terrific. The aircraft was thrown bodily upwards and I thought we had got a direct hit from a shell. I enquired quickly whether there was any of the aircraft left and an excited reply from the rear gunner told me that it was our bomb going off. He said it had gone off immediately beside the large pumping station which we had been aiming for and that a colossal belt of smoke and flame had come up to more than half the height of the aircraft and there was a tremendous blaze.

The whole of this time tracer from the ground defences was whizzing past us in all directions. Looking back, it seems amazing that we weren't hit, but there wasn't a single bullet-hole in the aircraft when it was examined the following day. Both gunners were busy the whole time replying to this fire from the ground and, I hope, giving better than we got. We came round a second time to drop the remainder of our load. The bombs fell on or beside the fires started by the first bomb: there were more violent explosions and the fire was increased by half again.

We came straight down nearly to ground level again, and picked up the railway leading to Padua, which is about twenty miles away, where I knew there was an aerodrome. We flew alongside three goods trains, all the drivers of which leaned out to look at us in the brilliant moonlight. One waved, another spat, and the third, I thought, looked anxious. We did not fire at them.

Padua appeared. We whistled in and out of the tall spires which seemed to abound there, threw out leaflets then went on to the aerodrome. We swept the hangars and barracks with machine-gun fire. It must have been an extraordinary sight to see our great black bomber only twenty feet off the ground, clearly visible against the moon and snow, roaring and bucketing across the aerodrome at about 200 miles an hour with twin streams of gunfire pouring from nose and tail. The aerodrome defences were ready for us and opened fire with everything they had. I kept as low as I dared, making use of every bit of available tree cover. The tracer hopped along beside us parallel to the ground, but again we were not hit.

And that was the end of the fun. We climbed up steeply to cross the Alps again. Fog and cloud were by now widespread and apart from the mountain range, little was seen of the ground until we crossed the Belgian coast. Dawn was just breaking when we landed in mist at our own aerodrome.

The remainder of the squadron returned at intervals within the next hour. My tale is merely the tale of them all. They had all bombed from a low level. They had all scored direct hits. They had not wasted a single bomb. The long flight had been worth while. Only one aircraft failed to return.

The raid referred to above took place on the 22nd of December 1940. It was carried out by 9 Squadron flying Wellingtons out of R.A.F. Honington. The aircraft that failed to return was L7799 WS-D which crashed at the Hamlet of Lullington Court near Alfriston. All members of the crew were killed. It is not known whether the aircraft was on its outward or return flight when it crashed



Early Wellingtons of 75 Squadron photographed at Feltwell in 1939. These aircraft were given to the R.A.F. by the New Zealand government.

Part 71 A day early – re-locating an abandoned cat we have adopted tomorrow night.

January, 1941

RAID ON HAMBURG

BY A CZECH BOMBER PILOT

UP to this present time I am already on operations eight times against the enemy and now I am looking forward to many more missions. I am altogether nine years a pilot. When the Germans enter Czechoslovakia I escape to Poland. I am fifteen days only in Poland and then I come to England and here I am told that I should proceed to France with a group of twenty-five Czech airmen. I am wanting there to join the French Air Force, but there are difficulties. So instead I make application to join the Foreign Legion. All this group of twenty-five join also in accordance with advice from the Czech authorities in Paris and we go to Africa. At first we are employed as workers building highways. This was very difficult in the climate which is quite unusual for us. Then, after one time, we start with normal French drill infantry so that when these six months are over we can be regarded as French Legionnaires. During this time, however, the Czech authorities in Paris have made the necessary steps for us to join the French Air Force, and when at last they have succeeded in this all these Czech airmen in the Foreign Legion are sent to different stations in Morocco.

I spend another two months as pilot in the French Air Force in Africa; then I am sent to France and then when France collapses I am coming to England. That is in August.

When I am here it is not necessary for me to make personal application to join the R.A.F., because everything has been arranged for us beforehand and so, after a little time, I join the Czech bomber squadron. In these eight missions which I have made with them I am sent to eight different places, Berlin, Bremen, Hamburg, Wilhelmshaven, Essen, all in Germany and to these French Channel ports of Dunkirk, Calais and Le Havre. Three times I go as second pilot and then I am promoted captain of aircraft.

The raid at Hamburg is my most successful, I think. This raid was made on a full moon night. We succeeded in making an approach almost unobserved with complete silence on the part of the German guns on the ground, but so soon as we drop our flare, then immediately this anti-aircraft defence starts most violently and there are many searchlight also. I will never forget these thirty minutes which we spend over Hamburg simply trying to find the target in the docks. All the time they are firing at us very much. Then mine observer tells me "O.K. Now I am bombing." He tells me it is very good, his bombing. I see a big fire start and then I hurry for England.

At my first bombing missions I have felt some excitement, but now I am quite accustomed to it and I do not feel any excite¬ment at all.

Upon one occasion when I am second pilot we have to jump from our aircraft by parachute. To start with it was a very good flight this. We get to Bremen and we drop our bombs. Again these bombs are dropped at full moon and I am quite sure they are dropped on the docks. There is much anti-aircraft there also, but again we are not hit. In all these eight missions my aircraft is not hit.

This time when we start to cross the Channel we are proceeding in cloud towards England and ice is starting to form on our aircraft. Because of these icing conditions our wireless set simply stops to work, so when we reach the shores of England we are without any guide at all. It is cloudy, windy weather, with complete darkness and we are about half an hour after midnight. It is so bad that at first we cannot recognise whether we are above the sea or above the land, though we have come down to less than five hundred feet. In the end we see the waves and the white foam and this enables us to recognise the shores. We are hoping that the wireless operator will succeed in repairing this deficiency in his apparatus, but it is not so. We remain in the air as long as fuel enables us to and then when we are still finding nowhere to land the captain is obliged to give this order to abandon aircraft.

I am to go first. I shake hands with all of them and I go through the front hatch. We are now at two thousand feet. I make two somersaults and then I pull the rip-cord. I am wondering very much if this parachute is going to open. I have never jumped before. Then I have a feeling of the parachute coming out of its cover which is on my back and next there is a jerk when she opens and I start to swing in the air like a pendulum.

It is raining very heavily and I am becoming soaked. As I descend, I notice a road. I shout, but apparently nobody is present. During this final period of descent I am prepared to land with my hands or my feet first, but unfortunately I first hit the ground with my face. I receive such a shock that it compels me to lie for some minutes to recover. Then I find I am in a meadow. I shout several times, but with no results so I fold my parachute over my arm and walk until I reach a house. When I knock on the door and shout again, there is a lady whose head appears from a window upstairs and I ask for help. This lady immediately vanishes and at once a gentleman appears in the same window with a gun which he points at me. When I see this gun, I am so weak already through all these events that I faint and next I find myself already in the house in an easy chair. When they have made sure of me they are very, very kind and they give me hot tea with whisky in it. The police and a doctor arrives with his car and he takes me to his house. He offers me a bath and pyjamas and a bedroom and something to eat and then I go to sleep. I am sleeping only for thirty minutes when the front-gunner arrives also. He explains that he had to hang for one hour from a tree with his parachute before succeeding to release himself and dropping to the ground.

And soon after this incident we are back once more on operations.

So now good night.


No photos this week instead this link:

http://www.fortunecity.com/greenfield/drongo/72/311photo.html

takes you to a page of photos of the Czech bomber squadron – 311 Squadron.

Part 72.

January, 1941

RAID ON WILHELMSHAVEN

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT

The speaker has been in the R.A.F. for fourteen years. He is thirty and has done one thousand and nine hundred hours' flying. Since the war began he has been on twenty-seven operational flights, including five over Berlin and one over Turin. On the night of January 16th, he was the captain of a heavy bomber which took part in the concentrated attack on Wilhelmshaven.

THIS Wilhelmshaven raid was my first flight on coming back from leave, and I was rather glad to have it because the previous night Jerry had been over and kept my wife and me awake with a few bombs not many yards away from home. I thought it was nice to be able to return his visit so quickly. Over the North Sea we ran into thick cloud with a base at three thousand feet. I took the machine up to eleven thousand five hundred feet and avoided it, just skimming along the top. But that brought us into nastier stuff, electrical disturbances and, what was worse, icing. Blue flames were flickering round the airscrews and the guns. The aircraft was bumping about and it was hopeless trying to use our wireless. It was terribly cold—about minus twenty-nine degrees. At 12,000 feet we got clear of the cloud, except for one great whopper which we had to dodge. Forty miles from our target flak began to stream up from Emden; actually the ground defences were firing at another of our aircraft, and we skirted neatly round the barrage and sailed on to our target area. Once there we saw the thick black shapes of buildings standing out clearly against the snow. Some of our boys had already been over and had started five jolly good fires. There was one huge blaze which we reckoned to be about half a mile long and another big circular fire out of which ten explosions came just as I was running over my target. There was no need to bother about dropping any flares; the fires gave us ample light.

I decided not to bomb the biggest fire which was doing very well for itself, so I just waited my time. Then I saw heavy flak being fired at someone on my right. It gave me my chance. While Jerry's attention was distracted we snooped in unobserved. In a straight run we dropped one long stick, and that brought the anti-aircraft fire on to us, but by turning round I was able to avoid most of it and swung away to have a good look at the damage down below. Our bombs had set ablaze a large area and we saw nine or ten explosions all of which were quite distinct from the bursts of our own bombs. We toured around for another five minutes though all the time the flak was getting heavier. The extra five minutes were worth while for at the end of them one of the fires we had started was running into another and the dark shadows thrown by the buildings on to the snow were being driven away by the light of the flames.

There were many other aircraft over Wilhelmshaven and we saw bombs from some of them bursting squarely on decks and dock buildings. Chunks of debris went hundreds of feet into the air, and the job done we turned for home.

It was very quiet going home until we got over the North Sea. Then my airspeed indicator got sulky and froze up on me. I thought I would go down to a warmer layer, but the cold clouds were almost down to sea level so I climbed back again to about twelve thousand feet and eventually got over the top and carried on home. There were one or two anxious moments when we were landing, for the airspeed indicator was still frozen up and when you have no idea of your speed it is pretty unpleasant landing in the dark. But we managed it all right; there was a kindly moon to help us.

We all agreed that it had been a very good show.

Pics of Hurricanes this week – running out of pics of Wellingtons!


A Hurricane of 615 Squadron badly damaged at Kenley on the 18th of August 1940 during the Luftwaffe campaign against Fighter Command airfields in southern Britain. Interesting to compare this to the damaged BoB Sow Hurricane from Oleg’s 23 7 10 update:


Very little loose canvas in Oleg’s Hurricane.

Part 73. Two days early - on my hols tomorrow.

January, 1941

RAID ON BREST

BY A PILOT OFFICER

THAT night we were just making an ordinary night attack on Brest harbour. We'd been there before, and we knew roughly what to expect. There was a bright moon when we got near the place, and the flak—the anti-aircraft fire—was coming up in much the usual sort of way. There were curtains of fire here and there, cones of fire over the more important spots and searchlights wandering all over the place.

It was pretty cold, but you expect it to be cold at the height at which we were flying. Then suddenly the port engine stopped. My observer, who was in the nose of the aircraft, switched on the inter-communication telephone and asked:

"What's happened?"
"Port engine stopped," I told him. Then, just as I said it, most of the noise died out of the aeroplane, and I said:
"Gosh, starboard engine stopped, too."
"Well, here we go," said the observer.

And that was all you could say about it. Both engines had iced up and stopped, and we were gliding, without any power, slowly downwards.

I was not particularly worried at first. Engines do sometimes ice up and stop, and when you come down into warmer air, with any luck they pick up again. My only worry was to travel as slowly as possible, so that the glide would last as long as possible. The observer and I had a chat about it and decided that, as we were already over Brest, we might as well have a smack at the target, even without any engines. The flak had died away for the moment, so we started our first run in. By then we had lost about a thousand feet in height.

We made a run across the target area, but we couldn't see the exact target we wanted, so we came round again and started another run, a few hundred feet lower. And we kept on doing that, a bit lower each time, for what seemed about ten years— although really our whole glide lasted for less than a quarter of an hour.

By this time, of course, the German gunners knew we were there, and now and then they seemed to have a pretty good idea exactly where we were. There was one particularly nasty burst of flak all round us when we were about half-way down, and it shook the aircraft a bit, but we weren't hit. Every now and then a searchlight picked us up and I had to take avoiding action to get out of it. I didn't want to do that more than I could help, because every time I did it we lost a little more height, and shortened the length of the glide.

Once I called to the air gunner to ask him if everything was all right.
"Sure," he said. "May I shoot out some of these searchlights?"

But I couldn't let him do that for fear of giving our position away completely. He was disappointed, and every now and then he came on the 'phone and said hopefully:
"There's a searchlight on us now, sir."

By the time we were down to about 4,000 feet, still without any engines, things began to look rather nasty. We were still gliding, and still making our runs over the target area, with the observer doing his best to get the primary target into his bombsight—and, of course, we were still losing height. To add to our worries, another Blenheim high above us, without the slightest idea that we were below, was dropping flares and lighting the place up.

When we had lost another thousand feet, we ran slap into the middle of trouble. The flak came up like a hailstorm going the wrong way. But even then, by a stroke of luck nothing hit us.

A little lower, however, our luck broke. The port wing stopped an explosive shell, which tore a hole two feet square in it. I called to the observer to get rid of the bombs on some¬thing useful, because we hadn't got enough height to go round again. The observer released the bombs, and they fell near the entrance to the Port Militaire—and still we were gliding downwards.

By now we were so low that we could see almost everything on the ground and in the harbour. I took one quick look over the side, but one look was enough. The tracer fire was coming up so quickly at us that I had to rely on the observer to direct me through the various streams of it. I had no time to watch it myself. The gunner got the dinghy ready in case we came down in the water, and he afterwards swore that he could see the black shapes of men by the guns on the ground, but I think it was probably the gun emplacements that he saw.

Right over the middle of the harbour, at just about 1,000 feet, we were caught in a strong blue searchlight—and almost simultaneously both our engines picked up again.

I raced out of the harbour, through even more violent flak, fortunately without being hit again, for at first the aircraft refused to climb.

All the way home I had to keep the control wheel hard over to the right, to hold the damaged wing up, and several times the observer had to come back to help me hang on to the wheel, the pull was so heavy. We made for the nearest aerodrome in England, where they did everything they could to help us down. But directly I lowered the under-carriage the aircraft started to drop out of the sky like a brick.

The only thing to do was to land fast, so the crew braced them¬selves on the straps, opened all the hatches, and we came in just sixty miles an hour faster than the Blenheim's usual landing speed. Luckily the undercarriage was undamaged and we landed safely.

Just one thing more. That aircraft is now in service again. The engineers worked on it night and day and, thanks to them, within three days I flew it back to my own aerodrome.


Hurricanes again:

Testing a Hurricane’s eight machine-guns: a burst of 1,600 rounds with 1 tracer bullet in 4.


Outside view of a Hurricane’s gun-camera.


Inside view of the same – fitted just inboard of the guns on the starboard wing.

Interesting as always.. Thanks.

Thanks Trooper 117

Part 74.

February, 1941

ADVENTURES OF A NEW ZEALAND FIGHTER PILOT IN THE R.A.F.

This is the story of a twenty-three-year-old fighter pilot from Wanganui, New Zealand. Not only is he a squadron leader with a great many confirmed victories to his credit and the holder of the Distinguished Flying Cross and Bar, but he has himself been shot down seven times and has three times had to bale out from crippled aircraft. He has had a head-on collision with an enemy machine, has seen his plane blown up three seconds after abandoning it and has even been bombed on the ground when taking off.

WELL, I certainly don't feel any the worse for my various adventures and I hope to do a lot more flying yet.

When war broke out, for a long time life was uneventful. In fact our first engagement did not take place until the German army was half-way through France. But my adventures began with that first engagement and from then on they came pretty thick and fast.

That first engagement was over Calais. Another pilot and I volunteered to escort a small training type aircraft to Calais aerodrome where the trainer was to land and pick up a British pilot who had force-landed. He was in command of a squadron which, operating from the same English base as ourselves, had been fighting along the French coast during the German drive to Dunkirk. Calais was surrounded by German troops, but the aerodrome was still a sort of No-man's Land.

Well, the trainer landed, but the passenger was nowhere to be seen and because of the attention we were getting the trainer had to take off again. My pal and I were "milling around" at 1,000 feet and the other plane was just leaving the ground when a dozen Messerschmitt 109s hurtled down on us. The trainer was forced back to the ground and stopped in a hedge while our two Spitfires had a grand shooting match with those 109s. It was over in a few minutes, when the survivors flew off, leaving us still in the air and the wrecks of several 109s lying on the beach, on the aerodrome and in the middle of the town. I had got two certain and one probable. The other Spitfire had one certainty and two probables. Immediately after the pilot of the trainer got his aircraft ready to take off again and arrived home safely without a bullet-mark.

Next day the whole squadron was sent up to intercept fifteen Hes, twenty-four 110s and three squadrons of 109s. We shot down eleven without a scratch to ourselves. After that we had dozens of engagements, mostly over the French coast and near Dunkirk, for the great evacuation of the British Army had by then begun. It was tiring doing several patrols a day, starting at three-forty-five a.m., and getting in two before breakfast. But I think all the pilots who took part were living on the crest of a wave of enthusiasm and wouldn't have stayed out of it for anything. The losses to the enemy were tremendous, but of course the R.A.F. had its losses too.

It was during the Dunkirk fighting that I had my first real adventure. One day I was chasing a Dornier 215 from Dunkirk to Ostend in and out of clouds. We were firing at each other and it seems we shot each other down more or less simultaneously. My engine was hit and I crash-landed on the beach at Ostend. The Dornier passed over my head with both motors on fire and, I think, crashed five miles further down the beach.

I was knocked out—cut my forehead and got concussion— but luckily I came to and was able to get out of the machine which was beginning to burn. A few seconds after I scrambled out the petrol tank exploded and the aircraft became a beacon. Ostend was surrounded by Germans, but I saw none. I walked along the beach for half an hour getting shot at now and then by Belgian soldiers who took me for a Hun. Making my way inland I found a bus carrying Belgian troops to Gravelines and I rode with them until they stopped halfway and seemed to be in some trouble. I helped myself to a car—there were cars all over the place—and went on, but few of those abandoned cars had much petrol and I had to transfer to others five times before I reached Dunkirk, finishing the trip on a motor-cycle. I had crashed at Ostend a little before dawn and it was now midday.

I went on the beach among the troops to wait my turn for a place on a boat. The Germans bombed us from time to time, but I got safely away in a destroyer. On a zig-zag course it took us five hours to reach Dover and German planes followed us almost all the time dropping bombs. There were 1,000 troops on board and one bomb hit us, but did not prevent us from getting into Dover.

About ten p.m. I was on the quay at Dover and by four the next morning I was back at my base. I had been absent altogether only twenty-four hours.

A day or two later I was involved in a collision with an Me. 109. Leading my flight I intercepted a Red Cross seaplane which was escorted—which a genuine hospital aircraft need not have been—by about twenty 109s. Two members of my flight were killed and I ended up with a collision. We had, however, collected two of the Germans and two probables—as well as the seaplane.

The collision occurred because I thought the Hun would give way and he thought I would. We had passed each other once, turned, and were coming together again. Too late to turn, I must have dropped slightly in a last second effort to dive and the 109's belly tore along the top of my fuselage, ramming my hood down on my head. My propeller had been snapped off and the engine pulled half out of the aircraft.

I found I could still hold the machine in a glide, but I was blinded by smoke and flames from the engine and could see absolutely nothing. Gliding down towards the English coast at about 100 m.p.h.—the collision occurred a few miles out to sea—I sat and hoped for the best.

The best was to hit an anti-invasion post, which pulled off a wing and sent the aircraft slithering on its side through two cornfields.

It finished up burning nicely and with ammunition popping off in all directions due to the heat. I had climbed out as quickly as possible, slightly burned on the back of the hands and forehead, but otherwise O.K. I had tightened up my cockpit harness during the glide down and that probably saved me from a broken neck.

My next adventure was a few weeks later when I chased two 113 Hes back to Calais, from the North Foreland. One of them I shot down over Calais aerodrome. The air was full of 113s, and they followed me like a swarm of bees as I turned for England. Their fire seemed to be coming from all directions and I flew flat out doing everything I could think of to shake them off. The Channel seemed an awful long way across. One bullet ripped the watch from my wrist and another singed my eye¬brow.

At Folkestone, the Germans turned and went home. I carried on, but my aircraft was full of holes and suddenly, only 800 feet above Ashford, it began to fall to pieces. I was too low to jump and I could not have landed the plane. I was still doing 250 m.p.h. so I pulled back the stick, hoping to climb a few hundred feet before dropping out. But I got caught on my seat and it was so late when I did get clear that I hit the ground a few seconds after the parachute opened and knocked myself out. I spent that day in East Grinstead hospital, but was back flying the next.

Two days later I was in a scrap with a large force of 110s, and after shooting one down had my oil-tank shot away. I was about five miles over Chatham and had to force-land without an air-speed indicator—it had been damaged—but I got down all right.

By this time I was becoming used to being shot down and when I next got mixed up with a large force of Jerries I wasn't in the least surprised to have my Spitfire's rudder shot away and my engine set on fire. Nor, if it comes to that, was I much concerned. I had gone into the fight wholeheartedly, had shot one German down for certain, another was a probable victim and now I was shot down, and I knew from past experience that I still had a very good chance of living to fight another day.

I had glided down from 28,000 to 10,000 feet, keeping control by using the ailerons in place of the rudder. But then the engine caught fire and I had to bale out. Remembering how I got caught in my seat on the last occasion I did not attempt to tip myself out, but stood up in my seat and took a header over the side. I cleared everything beautifully.

It was a lovely day, and as I came nearer the ground I could hear people talking in the streets of Maidstone and pointing to me. I don't know what they thought, for I had been practising side-slipping on the way down. You side-slip by pulling on the cords and "Spilling a little air from one side of the brolley". It was just as well, for I had to side-slip pretty vigorously to miss a house and landed instead in a plum-tree.

Next morning I was just taking off, doing about 100 m.p.h. over the ground, when bombs whistled down on the aerodrome. The Hun was dive-bombing us. One bomb landed just in front of me, blew the engine clean out and sent me and my Spitfire hurtling upside down along the ground for 150 yards. My leather helmet was torn where it had caught the ground, but beyond slight concussion and bruises I was all right. I was helped out of the plane by a colleague who had been blown out of his aircraft. He revived me and we ran for shelter, as bombs were dropping thick and heavy. A couple of Jerries tried to machine-gun us as we ran, but they didn't get us. I was put to bed and I was still in bed the next day when another raid started. I felt I would rather be in the air than on the ground so I hopped out of bed, slipped on some clothes, went up in my Spitfire and brought down a Dornier.

After these adventures I was just beginning to think that things were getting uneventful when I had another thrill— as big a thrill as I want. A pupil pilot to whom I was teaching tactics flew into me and cut my Spitfire in two. I was caught up on the remnants of my aircraft and couldn't jump. The aircraft dropped a good many thousand feet before I got clear, and I had struggled so much that half my parachute harness was torn off. I found the rip-cord handle dangling six feet out of reach.

The earth was corning up to meet me and there was nothing I could do. I closed my eyes and waited. Suddenly there was an awful jerk on my shoulders. The "brolley" had opened on its own accord. Subsequent examination showed that the rip-cord and pin had never been pulled, but that somehow the silk had bellied out and checked my fall. I landed heavily, however, and had to go to hospital for three days—a record time for me. And I hope it'll remain a record.

The fighter pilot above is Al Deere. It’s interesting to compare his war time BBC talk with his Wikipedia entry:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Christopher_Deere

Here he is with Dowding and others in a line up photographed on the 14th of September 1942. An early celebration of the Battle of Britain:

Photograph of Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding and an aide with several Battle of Britain fighter pilots (representing "The Few") outside the Air Ministry in London during the celebration of the second anniversary of the RAF's most successful day of the Battle. Left to right as shown: Sqn Ldr A C Bartley DFC, Wg Cdr D F B Sheen DFC, Wg Cdr I R Gleed DSO DFC, Wg Cdr Max Aitken DSO DFC, Wg Cdr A G Malan DSO DFC, Sqn Ldr A C Deere DFC, Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, Flt Off E C Henderson, Flt Lt R H Hilary, Wg Cdr J A Kent DFC AFC, Wg Cdr C B F Kingcome, Sqn Ldr D H Watkins DFC and WO R H Gretton.


This entry is the last in my book ‘Winged Words’. Fear not however, I have another book ‘We Speak from the Air’ published in 1942, which contains 23 more BBC talks dating from the early war years. Will SoW BoB be out before this book finishes?

RedToo.

Part 75 – Part 1 of ‘We Speak from the Air’

Aircraft Captures U-boat

Hudson aircraft of coastal command recently sighted and attacked a u-boat in the Atlantic. As a result of this attack the u-boat was forced to the surface in a badly damaged condition and surrendered. (Admiralty and Air Ministry Communiqué.)

WE knew early in the morning that there was a U-boat somewhere round that part of the Atlantic. Another Hudson out on patrol from my squadron had seen her twice, but both times she dived and got away.

The Atlantic didn't look very inviting when we left that morning. The sea was rough, and covered with angry white-caps. The clouds were low, and we kept on running into rain-storms and patches of dirty weather. We flew a good many miles close down to the sea—nothing to look at but clouds, and waves, and rain, and it was getting a bit monotonous. The first thing I knew about the U-boat was a shout from my second pilot, “There’s one just in front of you." He pointed out to the port bow, and there was a U-boat, roughly 1,200 yards away, just starting to crash-dive—they had seen us too.

The second pilot was standing with his face pressed to the windscreen, and he had a better view than I had, so I called out to him, “Let me know when it's time to attack, Jack." He nodded, and a few seconds later my whole crew shouted, "Now!"

When I came round again in a tight turn, the whole area of the sea was churned up into a foaming mass, and in the middle of it the U-boat suddenly popped to the surface again. So we dived straight on to her and opened up with all the guns we had. I had my front guns going, the wireless operator dropped on his tummy and wound down the belly gun in the floor of the aircraft, and the gunner in the turret was firing practically the whole time. We had tracer ammuni¬tion loaded, and the red streaks of the tracer were flashing all round the conning-tower, and showering up the water all round the hull of the U-boat.

To our surprise, just as we dived in again to the attack, the conning-tower hatch was flung open, and about a dozen men tumbled out, and slid down on to the deck. We thought at first they were making for their guns, so we kept our own guns going hard. The Germans who had already got out of the conning-tower didn't like that a bit, and they tried to scramble back again. The rest of the crew were still trying to get out of the hatch, and they sort of met in the middle and argued it out. It was a regular shambles for a few minutes. We could see them very clearly, for we were close on top of them, and they were wearing bright yellow life-saving jackets, rather like our Mae Wests.

While the Germans were all stooging about in the conning-tower we continued to attack them, circling round each time and coming in again. That made the confusion below even worse.

We went round four times, and we were just getting ready to dive on them for the fifth time when they decided they had had enough of it. They stuck a white rag of some sort out of the conning-tower, and waved it violently. We found out afterwards that it was a shirt they were using for a white flag.

We all stopped firing, but continued to circle them with all our guns trained. The Germans were determined to make us understand that they had surrendered. They got hold of some sort of white board, and waved that at us too.

We were still suspicious, so I dived right over the U-boat at about 50 feet, and then flew alongside her, to see what it was all about. They followed us all round with their white flag. We followed them all round with our guns trained on them.
Practically the whole crew seemed to be in the conning-tower now, packed in so tightly they could hardly move. We were close enough to see their faces, and a glummer-looking lot I never saw in my life. Not a smile among them!

It was only then that we began to realise that we really had captured a submarine, and they really had surrendered. The difficulty then was how to get them in. I even sug¬gested jokingly that I should drop my second pilot by para¬chute as prize crew, but he didn't fancy it. But we were determined to get them ashore if we could, submarine and all, so we sent off signals to our base, asking for surface craft to be sent to pick them up. We soon knew that several were on their way, steaming as hard as they could go, and other aircraft were being diverted to relieve us.

All we had to do was to keep circling the U-boat with our guns trained, to prevent the crew going below; we had to intimidate the crew, and keep them in the conning-tower.

We kept that up for three and a half hours, and it was a bit trying. I dared not take my eyes off them for a single second—and when we finished circling at last, I couldn't turn my head at all, my neck was so stiff. The wireless operator had even a worse job. He spent his three and a half hours signalling furiously.

At last a relief aircraft turned up, a Coastal Command Catalina flying boat. We saw it coming, and we were scared it was going to attack the U-boat, so we flew towards it signalling hard that she had surrendered, and we were trying to take her prisoner. I think the actual signal we flashed was: " Look after our sub., it has shown the white flag." The Catalina boys understood, and they started to circle her too. Then another Hudson came up, and plenty more aircraft as the day wore on, but our petrol was getting a bit short, so we had to turn for home, and that was the last we saw of our U-boat.

Of course the job wasn't anything like finished. We had had the incredible good luck to find the U-boat, but the Catalinas kept up the watch for hours, much longer than we did, through gales and darkness. They stuck on to the U-boat magnificently. Then the Navy came along, and they put up a grand show too, taking the U-boat in tow in the most difficult conditions, and bringing her right in to shore, with all the crew prisoners.

And we owe the Navy a personal word of thanks, too, for a very nice gesture they made. They came down to our station and handed over to the squadron a rather wonderful memento of the occasion, a memento of which we shall always be very proud—the U-boat's flag.


This photo is from ‘Coastal Command’ - The Air Ministry Account of the Part Played by Coastal Command in the Battle of the Seas 1939 to 1942. Published in1942. Its caption is ‘A prize crew brings the U-boat into a British port’ This U-boat is the one in the account above. The same story (but from an official viewpoint) being in the Coastal Command publication. The photo of a U-boat in part 57 of this thread is also of the same U-boat.

Part 76. Apologies, late due to holidays

2. Mast-high Over Rotterdam

A highly successful daylight raid was carried out this afternoon on enemy shipping in the docks at Rotterdam. Several squadrons of Blenheims of bomber command were engaged in the operation and the attack was pressed home with great daring from very low levels. (Air Ministry Communiqué)

THE first I saw of Rotterdam was a sky-line of high cranes over the docks. Climbing as high as the cranes themselves were fat columns of black smoke to mark the shipping that had already been successfully bombed. I was in the second formation of Blenheims to attack.

I had watched the leading squadron cross the Dutch coast only a few feet above the sandy beaches, where people waved us on, and I wondered if they had noticed the R.A.F. unconsciously giving the “V " for Victory sign as we flew over in vic formation. There was the astonishing flatness that I had expected and only occasionally could I feel the aircraft lifted up to miss windmills, farmhouses and villages; but most of all I was delighted to see that the country Dutchmen really do wear baggy trousers and vivid blue shirts. Cows galloped nervously about as we came hedge-hopping over the fields. Nearly everyone we saw gave us some kind of cheery gesture: but one man, evidently alarmed, was crouching against a telegraph pole. Actually we were so low that a few of my friends brought back some evidence of it. One pilot, for instance, not only cut straight through a crane cable, but got a dent in the belly of his aircraft, and some red dust, scraped from a Dutch chimney-pot, stuck to his aircraft. The same pilot had evidently been corn-cutting in between the hedges and returned with a small sheaf of the stuff in a niche on the leading edge of his wing.

We bombed Rotterdam at 4.55 in the afternoon. As we flashed across the docks, the observer saw “our " ship—a bulky black hull and one funnel. We nipped across the last building and from mast-height we let our load drop. She was a medium-sized ship—I should guess about 4,000 tons. I could feel the bomb doors springing to, and then we were away over towards the town. In ship bombing of this kind, often you can't see your results; but I had a very clear view of our own results this time. There was a terrific explosion and instantaneous smoke and flames. I have seen lots of these explosions by now, but this one was by far the biggest. Over to the left we saw a good many supply vessels burning from the attack by the first wave. Elsewhere burning warehouses obstructed the view and only the bombers following on could see what had happened.

And then on our way out of the town, with white tracers whipping under us, I saw great pillars of smoke spring up from the other enemy ships we had bombed.

We had a good trip home and it had been a great day.


9 Staffel/ Jagdeschwader 26 Pilots during the Battle of Britain:

Part 77.

3. Fighter Pilot

The king has been graciously pleased to approve the following awards, in recognition of gallantry displayed in flying operations against the enemy:

Second bar to the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Acting squadron leader—this officer has displayed a conspicuous gallantry and initiative in searching for and attacking enemy raiders, often in adverse weather conditions. Since December, 1940, he has destroyed three enemy bombers and one fighter, thus bringing his total victories to twenty-two. (Air Ministry Bulletin.)

WHEN war broke out, I had been in the R.A.F. some four years and was delighted when I was posted as a flight com¬mander to a new Spitfire squadron which had just been formed. We put in some pretty intensive training, and long before the spring of 1940 arrived we were right up to the mark and ready to go.

Our first combat chanced to be with a large formation of Me. 109's, Nazi single-seater fighters. It took place over the coast of North Belgium, and the first thing I noticed after we had closed with them was that the air seemed to be full of planes milling around. I singled one out and was lucky enough to shoot him down in a wood near St. Omer. On that first meeting the squadron shot down eleven Huns for the loss of one of our pilots, who had crash-landed on the beach.

That wood near St. Omer will be one of the first places I shall visit when we have won the war, because while out on our second patrol that same afternoon I shot down two Me. no's right alongside it. I had picked the first one out of a large party covering a bunch of Ju. 87's which were dive-bombing the harbour, and I forced him to crash-land alongside the wreckage of my morning Me. 109.

Incidentally the pilot of that Me. no very nearly put an early end to my fighting career with nothing more than a pistol. I had circled him very low to make sure he had crashed, when he stepped out of the cockpit apparently unhurt and took a pot-shot at me with his pistol. It was either wizard shooting or the world's biggest fluke, for that shot went through my windscreen within an inch or two of my head. I turned quickly and dealt with him, and as I did so I saw that another no had been snooping along behind me over the tree-tops, hoping to pick me off. He opened up with cannon fire and put a shell through my fuselage, but I did a tight turn, squirted at him with what ammunition I had left, and he went down to crash alongside his two friends.

As you can imagine, I was pretty bucked with that bag of three for my first day in action, and a couple of Dornier 17's the next day and another of the same type on the third day made me quite a lot happier. The second three were bagged over the Dunkirk-Calais-Boulogne area, and the last affair was a regular shooting match. I remember I arrived back at my base with no oil, no glycol, and the sliding hood and side door of my Spitfire shot away. I had a cannon shot through the tail which left only two inches play on the elevators with which to land, and I had no flaps, no brakes and a flat tyre. I did somehow manage to put it down all right, and as I finished my landing run the engine seized up. That Spitfire was too shot up and damaged to fly again, but I was lucky enough to escape with only a slight wound in the thigh, caused by a bit of metal flying off the rudder bar.

I was fit again within a few days and, early on the morning of the first day I was back, nine of us came upon a bunch of Heinkel bombers with a high escort of about fifty Me. 109 fighters. I think pretty well all of us had picked off one of the Hun bombers each before down came the fighters. A few minutes later we had to try and make our way home because both petrol and ammunition were getting short. I was in a bit of a spot by then with six Me. 109's after me, but luckily I found a nice big friendly cloud in which I was able to turn and shoot down one of my pursuers into the sea with what ammunition I had left. Then I popped back into the cloud and arrived home with only five gallons of petrol left and five shell holes in my Spitfire. " All the boys home safely " was the entry in my log after that little affair.

When the hectic Dunkirk days had ended, the squadron was sent into a quiet sector to rest and reorganise, and I remember a particularly enjoyable incident which happened one morning around the middle of August. Up at 15,000 feet over Cardiff I had picked up three Ju. 88's which were heading as if for Ireland. My stern attacks didn't seem to make the slightest impression on them, so I hared past them, turned and carried out head-on attacks. That worked all right, but by the time I had accounted for two of them the third had disappeared in the clouds.

A few days later, when I was on my way to an aerodrome to get some of the holes in my Spitfire patched up, I struck the first of the big daylight blitzes on the South Coast, and ran into a couple of Ju. 88's off Beachy Head. I chased one of them about thirty-five miles out to sea before I shot him down. By that time we were right down on the water and as I turned and climbed the other Hun opened fire at me with his cannon. He shot my oil and glycol tanks away and part of my propeller, which caused excessive vibration. I climbed for all I was worth and pushed the engine flat out. Very soon it was on fire but, even so, it got me back sixty miles before it went up in smoke and I had to bale out. I was smothered in oil and couldn't see a tiling. Perhaps it was just as well, for if I'd realised I was only a few hundred feet up I'd probably never have had the nerve to jump. As it was, my 'chute opened with a bump a second or so before my feet hit the earth. Some Observer Corps men I spoke to later told me I was not more than 500 feet up when I jumped. I still go hot and cold when I think of that jump.

Incidentally I gained an Iron Cross that evening. In the base hospital to which I was taken with an injured leg, I was put in a bed next to a German pilot who had been badly burned. He couldn't sleep and he could speak English perfectly—he told me he had spent his honeymoon in this country—I lay awake talking to him. He insisted on giving me his Iron Cross, which I always carry with me now as a mascot.

It was after I had returned from this spell of sick leave that I had an experience which made me angrier than anything I can remember for a long time. I was shot down by a lone bomber—a most undignified experience for a fighter pilot. It was a Dornier and I ran into him as he was bombing shipping about fifteen miles off the south coast of Wales. I shot him down all right, but as he went seawards his rear gunner got in a burst which put two holes in my cylinders, and I just managed to scrape in on to the very edge of the cliffs near Tenby. I was knocked out in the crash, but fortunately not for long, and I leapt out of that cockpit pretty quickly when I heard the petrol sizzling on the hot engine!

September 11th of last year is a day I shall always remember, for it was then I was promoted and given command of the Burma Squadron of Hurricanes. The first day I took them into action was a Sunday four days after my arrival. We found a big bunch of mixed bombers, flying in formations of anything from thirty to sixty, with escorting fighters above them. As I led my new squadron in, I saw three of these parties nearing London. As the boys waded into the bombers, I went for some of the fighters. I picked off an Me. no which I shot down over Barking, and one of his pals nearly got his own back when he put a bullet through my windscreen a few inches from my head. The squadron had a bag of five in that first outing, and there was quite a party in the Mess that night.

It was soon after this show that I had one of the luckiest breaks on record. I had been ordered up in rather bad cloud and hadn't been in the air ten minutes when I was told by radio that an enemy aircraft was near me. I hadn't finished acknowledging the information when I came out of the cloud, and there, dead in my sights and not 100 yards away, a Ju. 88 was waffling contentedly along. I yelled into my telephone, “Good heavens, he's here," pressed my gun-button as I spoke, and the raider crashed near Southwold.

The above BBC talk was by Robert Stanford Tuck. Here is his Wikipedia page:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Stanford_Tuck


A section of three Hurricane Mk 1s of 257 Burma Squadron take off from snow-bound Colishall, Norfolk. Led by Squadron Leader R.R. Stanford Tuck, in V6864 DT-A.
Note pilot size