RedToo,is this book available at all?

Looks a cracking read.

Hi Chucky,

Most of the books printed during WWII come up fairly regularly on eBay. I have bought most of my WWII published books there - you just need to keep looking. Prices are still surprisingly low. Here is the link to the 'Over to You' book that the last talk came from (scroll down):

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=160546560538&ssPageName=STRK:MEWNX:IT

I do mix and match pics though. E.g. the 'Over to You' book has no pics in it. Other period books do contain some pics. I source pics to go with the thread from all over the place. Hope this is of use.

RedToo.

Thanks RedToo.
I may in fact settle down one night with a G&T or two and read this whole thread.Much easier.
Thanks for your effort getting it all on here

Part 108.

Dawn Patrol.

I'm not good at getting up early—really early, I mean— and even in summer the early-morning air at 4 a.m. is chilly. But it has its compensations, for after you've over come the revulsion of getting out of a warm bed, there's something exhilarating and thrilling at that hour of the morning, especially when there's the prospect of a flying trip ahead. As a rule it's a good thing to have a cup of tea or something hot and a biscuit. It helps a lot towards waking you up.

When we get to the aerodrome it's still quite dark, except for the crescent of the last quarter of the moon and a very faint tinge of light in the east. The Met. forecast shows that we're lucky, and it's clearly going to be a fine day. A gentle breeze of ten miles an hour from the south, three-tenths to five-tenths cloud at five thousand feet, and a visibility of twelve miles or more. The Bomber boys were out last night, and a distress signal has been received saying that someone was down in the ditch 30 miles north-east of Calais. The boats are out searching, and I hope we shall have a chance of looking for them when we get out there.

Although it's still too dark to take off, we can just make out the faint silhouette of aircraft parked by the perimeter track. They look rather ghostly, and yet somewhat animal with their long snouts; the thick cable from the engine to the battery starter trolley—that's a large box containing an accumulator—gives them the appearance of being tethered to a trough.

As we arrive at the Flight Dispersal, one engine after another starts with a roar. My aircraft has already been warmed up and is ready for me to climb and take off. In the dark you may see a few sparks, but otherwise all you can detect is a faint mauve halo along a line of red-hot exhaust pipes.

As I get on to the wing of my aircraft, I notice that the morning dew and condensation have caused the windscreen and perspex hood to mist up; that's inevitable, but it will clear up as soon as we reach the cold air above.

Then I'm airborne. Although the Duty Pilot has seen me take off and will phone the information to Group Headquarters, I must book-in by wireless, so as soon as I'm in the air I press the "Transmit" switch on my R/T set. "Hallo, Bolton Control, Bolton Control. Party 24 airborne. Over." It's always a good thing to keep messages short, as it does not then give the Hun any time to plot my position. Immediately back comes the reply, "Hallo, Party 24, 24, Bolton Control answering. Receiving you loud and clear. I have no information for you. Listening out." That means that no enemy aircraft are reported in my vicinity, that Group know they can get into touch with me if and when they want to, and also confirms that my transmission is satisfactory.

Let's decide to climb above this first cloud layer and steer on 270 degrees. As the altimeter marks 4,000 feet, we get our first glimpse of the sun. At present it's just a red ball partially concealed by small clouds ; the channel and land below me are still in shadow, but the lights and changing colours reflected on the clouds must be seen to be believed. I wish I were an artist and could paint them; I always feel that a sunrise seen from the air is so beautiful that, were an artist to paint one truthfully, he would be accused of exaggeration. I wonder why it is so much more beautiful from the air than from ground level?

We are now passing through the light cloud layer. Small white wisps rush past me and the ground is blotted out as I break surface on top. It's glorious up here. The engine thrusts forward with a powerful roar, and although I'm in one of the fastest and deadliest of warplanes, I feel miles away from the war and rather tempted to day-dream. But that must stop right away. My position, silhouetted against the patch of white cloud, makes me vulnerable, for I can be seen very easily if there are any Huns above me. I take a good look around the sky, paying particular attention to that area behind me. There's nothing about, so we continue to climb towards the south-east. At 10,000 feet, I level out and take notes of the weather. The height, formation and amount of cloud, the temperature and visibility. All this I jot down on the writing-pad strapped to my knee. Below me the clouds have thinned out, and I am now immediately above a Belgian coast town which was formerly a well-known holiday resort. I note any ships I can see, and then turn through 180 degrees to dive down through the fast-disappearing cloud. To my right we can see the long white wake of an air-sea rescue launch. It must be searching for the bomber crew reported during the night. We shall not be able to spare much time looking for them, and there will be plenty of other aircraft doing that job, but—you never know —we might be lucky. I open the hood above my cockpit, for two reasons. It's easier to search by leaning a little out of the cockpit, and also I have a horror of falling into the water and being trapped inside. Higher up, I always fly with the hood closed, because I would have ample time to jettison if my engine failed or if I were unfortunate enough to be shot down. Low down I might not have the time before my aircraft hit the water and, you know, Spitfires don't float.

There's quite a lot of wreckage and oil floating about in the Channel these days, which makes me turn back several times and circle over a piece of wood or oil patch, fearing I might miss something or somebody. Every now and again I glance in the mirror above the windscreen or look behind me in case an enemy aircraft has spotted me and is creeping up. There doesn't seem to be anything about, so I think I—what's that? What a lucky break! Right below me, a large bomber's dinghy with five chaps in it. The sea all round is coloured bright green from the fluorescein carried in the Mae Wests, which helps so much to attract the attention of searching aircraft. Climbing above my "find," I circle and carefully note the position of the nearest rescue launch some six miles away. The rest is easy. I attract the attention of the launch and send it in the direction of the dinghy. They acknowledge my signals, and in a few minutes I know the bomber crew will be picked up.

We've now been airborne 40 minutes. Allowing, say, 20 minutes' scrapping, in case we meet anything in the air, that will leave about 30 minutes in which to play around. I decide to go and see if there's anything interesting inside France. We'll go down to nought feet and cross the coast between Boulogne and Calais. The cliffs at this part of the French coast are very like the ones at Dover, and on one occasion, I remember, I thought they were the English ones. We had been engaged somewhere in the middle of the Channel and I had got rid of a Hun off my tail by spinning down, and I turned to the right and headed south instead of north. I soon found out my mistake, because it seemed as if every anti-aircraft gun in France was having a pot at me, and I can't tell you to this day why I wasn't hit. However, that's another story.

Here's the coast. Now ease the stick gently back to scrape over the top of the cliffs, and we're over France. There doesn't seem to be any sign of life at this hour of the morning (it's just 5.45); but that doesn't mean much, and I'm quite sure that we've been spotted by some defence post; but we are too low and moving too quickly for anyone to have a shot at us. Trees and isolated houses flash by as we streak along at nearly 300 miles an hour. I'm looking for the aerodrome just south of the town we've passed, but it's impossible to read a map at this speed and, anyway, I want both eyes to watch the ground ahead and to avoid trees and other obstacles which appear as if from nowhere under my wings.

A clump of buildings ahead looks familiar; so also does that line of electric-light pylons to my right. Yes, I can now see the burnt-out remains of a hangar which was set on fire during one of the bombing attacks at the beginning of the summer. It's the aerodrome all right and the people on it are awake, for cutting across my port wing I can see thin white streaks. Flak. I can't hear any sounds of gunfire above the noise of the engine, but catch a glimpse of the gunpost on our left as we pass. Right ahead of me is what I'm really looking for—a couple of aircraft parked in front of a dispersal bay. I haven't the time to make out the type (they are probably 190s or 109s), and as my sight ring covers one of them, I press the gun-firing button on the control column. Small pencils of smoke reach out from each wing as my cannons fire. Although I can hear the guns firing, I'm not so much conscious of the noise they make as of the vibration and momentary drop in speed of the aircraft. It's a sensation hard to describe. Rather like standing very close to one of those pneumatic road drills where the noise is not deafening but seems to go through you and everything seems quiet in comparison when it leaves off.

As I pass a couple of feet above the enemy aircraft, there's a blinding flash of white flame, and a puff of oily black smoke is thrown into the air. Our cannon shells have hit it all right, and I would very much like to stay and watch it burning, but as all the guns round the aerodrome are having a crack at me, I resist the temptation and crouch lower in my seat. Not that crouching any lower would do the slightest bit of good if the aeroplane were hit fair and square, but somehow I feel as if I want to make myself very scarce just now. I keep the aircraft right down on the deck and shave a farmhouse or some building on the far side of the aerodrome, then down a small valley (I wish it were deeper) and hard right at the end of it so as to put as much distance and as many trees and buildings and things as possible between me and those red tracers which seem to follow after me. We haven't been hit, and there doesn't appear to be a single Hun in the sky. Anyway, I've used up a lot of my ammunition, and I feel that I've had my fun for this morning, so we'll just turn through 90 degrees to starboard and head for home.

Half-way across the Channel I pass over the rescue launch with the bomber's dinghy alongside. A couple of the crew wave and give the thumbs-up signal. Good show. They'll be back in England in time for breakfast. And talking of breakfast, am I hungry?


A Spitfire Vb of 92 Squadron in early summer 1941. This aircraft was used by Alan Wright. Note the lack of a yellow ring on one wing roundel.

Part 109.

"You don't make the same mistake twice"

In air fighting a pilot doesn't usually make the same mistake twice. Either he frightens himself so much that he never does it again or else—well, he's unlucky, and that way too he doesn't make the same mistake again. I'm remembering a mistake I made not so very long ago. I think you'll agree that I was lucky.

It was on one of those lovely English summer days on our aerodrome on the south coast. We were standing in our shirt sleeves and Mae Wests by the barbed wire near the dispersal hut. We could see the coast of France faintly on the horizon. Twenty feet away a couple of fitters were crawling over my Spitfire and tinkering with the engine, the aircraft looking slightly undressed with its engine cowlings on the ground beside it. No one had had a scrap for over a week. Nobody had even seen an enemy aircraft in the sky for over a week. I hadn't yet met a Hun in the sky at all. I remember someone saying, "It's a dull life," and we all agreed.

Half an hour later the C.O. told me to go and have a look at the weather at 30,000 feet over on the other side. I think Group Headquarters wanted to know whether it was fit to send over a sweep. I was as pleased as Punch. A lovely day. A climb up to 30,000, and I might find my first Hun somewhere over the water. What more could you wish for?

I took off and headed north in order to gain height first, before turning south and flying over France. It's best to cross the French coast either high up or at nought feet; if you go across at a height which is neither one thing nor the other, the Hun usually throws up a lot of dirt. It doesn't often hit you, but it makes things rather uncomfortable. Besides, it gives him plenty of warning.

At 12,000 feet, I could see both sides of the Channel there. The sea was as calm as a mill-pond. Here and there, dotted about the Channel, I could make out rescue buoys; and as I turned round towards France and Belgium, I could see woods and fields stretching for miles inland. It was then, I remember, my radio crackled in my headphones. It was the Controller back at base. He was warning me that there were a few bandits sculling about to the south of me. Well, I acknowledged the message, the warning, and I looked all round the sky, but saw nothing. I continued to climb steadily. Now below me was the balloon barrage over Dover harbour. The balloons looked like grey drawing-pins stuck into die kind of model landscape one used to see at exhibitions. There was no shipping in sight.

At 20,000 feet I levelled out. My engine was running perfectly, and I started to hum a tune. I felt so much on top of the world and wondered what it was about flying on a perfect day which you don't describe but—it gets into your blood and makes you happy. I looked down at Boulogne harbour four miles below me. The sun was very bright and glistened on a small patch of white frost forming on the inside of my perspex hood. By holding up my hand and squinting through my almost-closed fingers, I could just look into the sun, and satisfied myself that there was nothing above me. I was about to look behind me and examine the rest of the sky when I happened to glance down at the chessboard cultivation of France. Then I saw a small black speck moving slowly across the landscape. It might be a bird. The size was right. But it wasn't a bird. It moved too smoothly and regularly for that. It was the one thing I'd always been hoping to meet. I'd never been lucky enough to come across him before. My first Hun and by himself.

Keeping my eye on him all the time (otherwise I should have lost sight of him and might never have picked him up again against the dark background), I turned to the right so that I could dive down from out of the sun and come in from behind, him. It was then I heard a crackling over my radio transmitter. It was the Controller again saying something about "Bandits." He was warning me; but I was far too excited to listen to him. I just acknowledged the message with a curt "O.K." and, turning on the electric light in my gun sight and pushing forward the control column I started to go after my Hun.

The extra speed of my dive made the controls feel hard and stiff. The noise increased, and I could hear the whine of the slipstream as it rushed over my cockpit cover. Slowly I drew closer to my target. Very slowly, it seemed. But when I glanced at my airspeed indicator, I realized that it was "off the clock "—that meant over 400 miles an hour. Oh—I'd almost forgotten to turn the gun-firing button on the control column from "Safe" to "Fire." So I had the stick in my left hand and turned the knob with my right. Now, I was fairly tearing down. The enemy aircraft was still some distance below me. It began to take the shape of a 109F. Now I could see the crosses on the wings. I could just make out the double "V" sign on the long black fuselage. I knew that the pilot couldn't have seen me, as I was coming straight out of the sun. He just continued on a straight course. I was afraid that I was going to overshoot and flash past him without having time to get him in my sights. So very gently I eased back the control column and started to turn in a wide circle to the right. Then I could come up on him directly from behind. I was overtaking him quickly. My eyes were glued to his tail unit, and his wings were spreading wider in my gun sight. His tail unit was now dead in front of me. Now the two cross bars of the sight cut the fuselage behind the pilot's head. I pressed the firing button. Now! I felt the shudder as the guns fired, and saw the flash as the shells of my cannons went home into the aeroplane in front of me. A second later and I had to pull back the stick or I should have collided.

As I climbed almost vertically above and looked back and down over my shoulder, I saw a large mass of flame and black smoke. He could never have known what hit him. His whole machine exploded and disintegrated in the air. I continued to do a gentle turn, watching the flaming wreckage spinning down towards the ground some 15,000 feet below.

And then suddenly my own aircraft seemed to leap forward and shake itself. I felt the thud of the bullets hitting the fuselage behind me. As I looked at my instrument panel, it shattered. One of the instruments fell out, hitting my knee. I wondered vaguely how the shell had hit it without passing through my body. My side windshields splintered and let in a rush of cold air which took my breath away even though my face was covered by my oxygen mask. A large star appeared in the thick bullet-proof windscreen just above my head. Thick smoke and a smell of hot oil started to come up from the floor of the cockpit. I wondered what on earth would be next. You see, I'd just been watching an aircraft explode.

Telling you this takes time, but it actually took place so quickly that I hardly knew what had happened. It took time to realize I'd been shot up from behind, to remember the warning over the radio telephone. But I hadn't even the time to curse myself.

I whipped my machine over on to its back and the blood rushed away from my eyes, blacking me out for a second. The next moment I was diving down towards the ground. I hadn't yet seen what had hit me and automatically glanced up at my mirror to see if there was anyone still on my tail. But the mirror had disappeared, and all that remained was a piece of twisted metal perched ridiculously on top of the bent framework of my windscreen. I banked from side to side and looked behind me. Yes, above me and slightly to my right was an F.W. 190 getting into position for another attack on me.

I had to think quick. My radiator had been holed, that was certain. Besides, I didn't know what other damage there was. If my radiator was leaking, the motor might seize up at any minute. And somehow I had to shake off this Hun. He probably knew that he'd lamed me and was now waiting to finish me off.

I waited until he started to dive towards me. Then once again did a quick flick roll on to my back and dived almost vertically towards the French coast below. It was more uncomfortable, the dive, this time, for my aircraft was vibrating and it was as much as I could do to keep it straight. I guessed the tail had been hit; and probably the rudder was damaged, for I had to keep both feet on the port rudder control to prevent it from yawing to the right. The wind rushed through my splintered windscreen, tearing the oxygen mask from my face and pushing it up over my eyes so that I could hardly see or breathe. The sweat was running down my face and into my mouth, which was as dry as a bone. A few feet above the sea I levelled out and looked behind me. The 190 was nowhere to be seen. Whether I had lost him in the dive or whether he thought that he'd finished me off and I was diving down out of control, I shan't ever know.

With a great sigh of relief, and thinking my troubles were over, I sat back in my cockpit. Only to jump up the next second with my heart in my mouth. My engine cut. There was no time to bale out or give my position to base. Long ago I had discovered that my wireless set had been shot away, and anyway I hadn't got a microphone any more. I braced myself with my elbows against the sides of the cockpit and waited for the crash and the shock of cold water.

Suddenly the engine picked up again and very gingerly I climbed up to 500 feet. Twice more it cut, and twice more it started again. I wasn't quite so frightened the last two times, for I should have had time to bale out and had already loosened my straps and thrown away what remained of my helmet.

At long last the aerodrome appeared below me. I landed, and shakily I climbed out and looked at my aircraft. It was like a colander. How it came back I shall never understand. The fitter and the rigger who came up on the ambulance to meet me—they couldn't get it either.

Well, that adventure taught me a good lesson. Since then I've always listened to what the Controller had to say, and I always take a darn good look behind me before going after Huns. I think my lesson was cheap at the price.


Interrogating an RAF map. A bit better quality than the tea towel in the Collector’s Edition.

Part 110. The final part. Looking forward to CloDo being finished and the sim expanding into the later war.

This story is from ‘Battle Stories of the RAF’ by Leonard R. Gribble, published in 1945.

THE FLYING KITE

ON a grey November day in 1944 a group of Mitchell bombers left their airfield in North-West Europe and set out upon a vital strafing mission. Led by Wing Commander L. G. Homer, of Nuneaton, in Warwickshire, they flew through heavy banks of cloud to attack some of the most important rail communications in Northern Holland.

The farther they flew the thicker the clouds became, and the Mitchells had to go low to find their objective. They were met by a murderous fire from German anti-aircraft gunners. The black puffs of bursting flak dotted the route of the bomber formation. The gunners got their range, and as Homer led his formation in evasive action the Germans followed the twisting Mitchells with disconcerting accuracy.

The Wing Commander's aircraft, in the van of the procession, was hit several times, and the ailerons almost completely shot away. Cleverly he steadied the plane, and kept on course. The target loomed ahead, and Homer shouted over the inter-com.: "We're going in now. Let them have it where it'll do the most good!"

The Mitchell, difficult to handle, went straight in on the bombing run, and the bombs went down. A sheet of orange like the tip of a giant spear appeared in the centre of the target, and then the Mitchell was flying on and a billowing cloud of smoke marked where the bombs had burst. At that moment a glowing object rose vertically from the Dutch ground and seemed to pour upward through the air. It passed the bomber like a rushing meteor in reverse.

"A V2 rocket!" shouted the Mitchell's gunner.

The navigator, still looking back at the target, reported: "We made a good prang that time."

Homer set himself to start a sticky job of flying back to base. The aircraft was wobbling badly, and to make sure of hitting the target he had had to come down very low. Regaining the lost height, with the aircraft almost crippled, would not be easy, and enemy fighters were known to be between the Mitchell and its home field.

He got the bomber's nose turned round, and sped in a straight line for Arnhem and the lines of the Second Army, below Nijmegen. Behind him flew the rest of the formation, which had followed him into the attack. But again the Mitchells had to run the gauntlet of another close pattern of flak puffs. The German gunners around Arnhem seemed to be throwing up everything they had, and their shooting was still good. Not far past Arnhem the Mitchell shuddered and began slipping downward. Again a German gunner had found the range.

The leading Mitchell started bucking like a Western broncho. The engines were turning over smoothly, but with aileron control only one way Homer realized that he would lead his squadron into disaster if he continued to head the formation. He purposely turned out of the line of flight, while the gunners below, sensing his plight, renewed their efforts to shoot him out of the sky.

But long hours of training stood the Wing Commander in good stead during the perilous minutes that followed. By what seemed a miracle he contrived to retain his control of the rearing and sliding aircraft, and when one of the other planes in the formation came alongside to act as escort he was ready to continue the difficult flight home.

The Mitchell was still skewing about in the sky, like a kite broken loose from its mooring, and any moment might turn over and nose towards the brown Dutch fields or the silver streak of a river. But the crew knew Homer's ability as a pilot, and were content to await his order to bale out. They had no wish to land in the enemy's territory and spend the remainder of the war as prisoners, and every hard-fought moment brought them nearer their own base.

Homer knew his only hope of getting down was to make a belly landing, and the odds on his crew coming through the experiment without broken necks were slim. But he kept flying until he had sighted his airfield, and then he told the others of what he had a mind to try.

"The rest of you bale out, and good luck," he called.

The gunners had no option. Down they slipped, and their parachutes billowed open. Homer called to the navigator.

"I'm sticking, skipper," was the reply.

The wild-flying kite sped round the airfield, and Homer, glancing down, saw that it was littered with returned aircraft. There was no chance to try a belly landing until the field was cleared. He radioed his plight, and ground control got busy. But clearing the field in readiness for the risky landing took time. Round and round flew Homer in a series of wobbly concentric circles, with the Mitchell threatening at every turn to lift up its tail and dive out of control.

At last the field was ready, and the ground crews gathered to watch the Wing Commander take a chance with his life to save his machine. Just as he was about to go down a shout from the navigator sent the shuddering Mitchell off at a wild tangent. It had almost flown into a VI, which came roaring over the airfield, pouring flame from its tail. Another careering circle was made in safety, and then the Mitchel went down. It slid across the field with rocking wings, pitched, and twisted in its path, and then continued straight towards a five-ton lorry. Just in time the lorry was driven out of the damaged Mitchell's path, and the plane slithered on to a stop. Shaken, but grinning, Homer climbed out of his pilot's cockpit, to find his two gunners, who had parachuted down in safety, holding up their hands in greeting.

A few days later another Mitchell the German gunners had claimed as a "kill" was taking to the skies again.


No pics to view with this story but here is an Easter egg to finish with. France and the UK in 1944: http://www.stolly.org.uk/ETO/ (I’m pretty sure you won’t have seen these before).

Well that’s it the end of the thread. CloDo is out and I have built a new machine to run it (and ROF and OFF to tide me over until some decent campaigns arrive). I have enjoyed posting these accounts over the last two and a bit years. I hope you have enjoyed reading them. Hopefully the thread will remain for a while – mods any chance of a sticky?

RedToo.

Thanks for putting all of these up, RedToo!

What a great thread you've created RedToo, thanks to your link on 1C I found it.

MAC

I second Mac's comment above...

The one pic with the Me110 cockpit with the pilot looking thru a mirror is the first time Ive ever seen an Axis a/c use a mirror.
It might be this was just to see the radioman, but in IL2-COD and IL-46, the Luftwaffe a/c don't have mirrors as do the Allies, AFAIK anyways.

This link suggests that the Me109 E-4 did have one:
mirror link

S!

UPDATE

I did find ONE picture of a Bf109-E3 with a rear view mirror. Don't know if its a field mod or what.
So I hope this means we can expect to see mirror in the BF109 in IL-COD...