Part 107

Time to start another book: ‘Over to You - New Broadcasts by the R.A.F.’ Published in 1943 price ninepence net.


1 Dog-fights over Dunkirk

The days of Dunkirk when France finally capitulated are far behind, but some of those battles, high up in the sky, have left vivid memories in the minds of many pilots.

I can remember the glorious spring evenings when the sun was going down, lighting the evening with a deep red glow, and our squadron pilots stood outside the dispersal huts, still in full flying kit, waiting for the release from readiness which came only with the darkness.

We stood there at nights watching the endless stream of heavy bombers droning south-eastwards over our heads; the ground crews who stayed by to check our machines after dark, ready for the next day, were counting the heavy chaps as they went out, and a throaty cheer went up as the hundredth ploughed majestically on its way, becoming even smaller until it was lost to sight in the darkness of the east.

Donald and Ralph, my two friends, were beside me— we were a little apart from the rest and Ralph spoke: "Things are pretty grim over there; I wonder when our turn will come?"

"Old boy, don't you worry," replied Donald." We'll be in the thick of it in the next fortnight; the French will never hold out, and we will have to fight like hell to stop the darned Huns from walking into London."

They started arguing. For once I was quiet—a little bewildered that so much beauty could come from so grim a setting—and rather amazed at the sudden turn of events on the Continent. War up to now had been just one terrific thrill, but now it was looming up into a threat against Britain, which appeared likely to end in complete and utter disaster.

It was dark and the telephone rang, but instead of the expected release from readiness we were ordered to eat our supper as soon as possible and to arrange for six pilots to be at readiness throughout the night. I was second off the ground that night, so I rolled up in my flying clothes and tried to get some sleep in case I was ordered off later on.

It was after midnight when someone shook me. I jumped up off the bed and started rushing towards the door still only half awake. "Steady, steady," a voice said. It was my Commanding Officer. "You are not wanted to fly, but we have got to go south to be at 'M' by first light, and you will be one of the squadron so get everything ready for 3 o'clock —dawn is at 3.30."

"What's the matter, sir? Are we going to France "I asked. "No," came the quiet reply. "The army is evacuating from France. It has started already, and we are going to cover the withdrawal."

I tried to snatch some more sleep but it was useless. All the time through my mind rushed those few words—"the army is evacuating." I was relieved when at last it was time to go out to our aircraft.

It was just growing light. Our Spitfires were standing looking slim and eager to get into the air. There was no wind; a white mist was drifting over the Fens and it was rather chilly and damp.

In this war, by far my most vivid memories are not those of fierce fighting, of firing guns or aeroplanes—they are of quiet moments at the beginning and end of each day when dawn is breaking or night falls. Some of the sunrises that I have seen (and one sees many as a fighter pilot) have been among the most beautiful moments that I can remember.

This was such a morning, everywhere cold, still, and grey; no noise except the hollow-sounding voices of the airmen. Here and there a farm chimney was starting to puff out white smoke as we taxied out in the half-light with our red and green navigation lights burning.

At last we were airborne, packed in tight formation, the long streaks of flame from the exhausts showing up against the dark ground below. Already in the east the sun was rising over the North Sea, tinting everything a dull red. It was all so strangely beautiful, and yet, ever present, was the thought of the grim and dangerous work soon to be done.

We reached" M," as ordered, by first light, and as we landed, two other squadrons appeared from the north, circled, and came in. Hot tea and biscuits were passed round by some airmen from the back of a lorry. Within half an hour two more squadrons had landed, and the boundary of the aerodrome was covered in aircraft.

At last we got our instructions. We were to take off as a wing of five squadrons and to patrol the areas south-east of Dunkirk from 05.45 to 06.30 hours. If we used up our ammunition we were to return at once.

We were quiet, then, wondering what it would be like. Fellows tightened revolvers round their waists, ready to fight on the ground if we were shot down.

In an incredibly short time we were airborne. Our job was to patrol at 20,000 feet to stop the German Messerschmitt fighters from protecting their bombers below. Underneath us, three squadrons of Hurricanes were to deal with the bombers. Above us, another squadron of Spitfires patrolled.

We flew straight into the sun on the way over, and I could see very little as my eyes watered with the strain of looking for the enemy. We passed Dunkirk—-a huge column of black smoke rising straight up to 15,000 feet hardly moving in the still morning. For thirty-five minutes we flew round inside France when suddenly we saw black dots a little to the north-east of us. We rushed towards them and, in a moment, the sky was full of whirling aircraft, diving, twisting, and turning. Too late, both squadrons realized that we were friends, and although we had not opened fire at one another, it was going to be almost impossible to form up again in our own squadrons.

Round and round we went looking for our sections. I noticed queer little straight lines of smoke very close together as I flew past them. Suddenly I woke up. "Someone is shooting; it's smoke from incendiary bullets," I told myself.

I gave up all thought of trying to find the rest of the squadron and started searching all round. The French Curtis flying across my front: I went closer to have a look at them. Wow! They weren't Frenchmen, they were Huns—Me. 109s. They turned towards me, and I went into a steep climbing turn. Up the two of them went. Gosh! How they could climb! They were level with me about 400 yards away; another one joined them. I could see no other aeroplanes by now—just the three 109s.

It was a question of who could get the most height first. I opened the throttle as far as it would go. I was gaining a little now, and with my more manoeuvrable Spitfire I could turn inside the 109s. Slowly, in giant spirals, we gained height and, suddenly, I found myself up sun of all three of them. I quickly turned the other way, and they lost me.

Round I came at 26,000 feet, and I was right behind the last 109—too far away to shoot yet. I gained—oh, so slowly! —but, sure enough, I was gaining. How long could I wait before firing or before the leader saw me? He was weaving about pretty violently now looking for me. At last, I was in range. I pressed the button, and my whole aeroplane-shuddered as the eight guns fired. Nothing happened. The 109 flew on. Then, suddenly, there was a flash, and the enemy aircraft flicked over: his port aileron had been hit and had come off. He jettisoned his hood to jump out, and I turned quickly to get another shot when showers of tracer bullets flew past me. I had forgotten the other two 109s.

I flicked over into a quick turn and lost them. It was getting late, and I had not much petrol, I knew, so I dived for home. My Spitfire was gaining speed rapidly. I was away from them, and it was nearly 6.35. How quickly time had gone! The aircraft was going so fast I had to push hard on the stick to keep it in its dive. I started to look round and saw the coast of Dunkirk. Then there came the roar of machine-gun fire. I pulled back on the stick and went up, up, higher and higher, into a huge climbing turn. I could not see what had been firing at me. Anyway, I'd shaken him off, it seemed.

Nose down for home again. I was getting short of petrol; no time for dog-fights now. Faster and faster, and then, again, a burst of machine guns above the roar of the engine. I whirled round into another turn, and as I did so the noise stopped. Then it dawned on me. Fool that I was, it was my own guns firing. As the Spitfire increased its speed in the dive my grip on the stick tightened, and my thumb was still on the firing button after my fight! All the time that I had been taking such violent evasive action, wheeling round the sky, there had been nobody near me. I felt rather stupid dodging round the sky trying to get away from no one at all.

I settled down and got a grip of myself and crossed the Channel at 500 feet. It was an amazing sight, with hundreds of vessels of all sorts of shapes and sizes ploughing backwards and forwards across the Straits. I felt proud of my country, even if we were being forced to leave France. It was incredible to see little 15-ft. motor-boats sailing steadily across towards Dunkirk, unarmed, to face the fury and strength of the Huns.

I have often heard someone described as being a victorious loser. Only now did I realize the true meaning of that expression. Watching these gallant men beneath, one felt an almost irrepressible desire to land on the beach at Margate and to climb aboard one of the boats to share their dangers.

I crossed the English coast at Ramsgate, and saw beneath me the old civilian aerodrome that we had used for our summer camp eighteen months before. How different it looked in its war paint; my mind wandered, dreaming back to the days we had spent in peace time.

Suddenly, a row of white puffs of smoke appeared half a mile ahead of me. It was our own anti-aircraft fire. I had a little ammunition left, and I flew towards it looking everywhere for an enemy aircraft. I sighted nothing until, looming up in the haze which was hanging over the Thames, I saw barrage balloons. I was right in the middle of them so I climbed quickly above them. I still do not know whether the anti-aircraft battery fired to frighten me away from the balloons or whether there really was a German raider. But I stopped my day-dreaming and paid attention to getting home.

By this time I had used so much petrol that I was getting worried about being able to reach base as we had been ordered to do. Slowly the familiar landmarks went by beneath me. Every moment I pressed the petrol gauge. At last, my aerodrome came in sight.

I landed just as another of the squadron was touching down. It was Barrie; we were the only two back so far. We taxied rather quickly, racing to get in first and to tell the story, for there was a crowd waiting on the tarmac. Two hundred yards short of the dispersal point, Barrie ran out of petrol and stopped, so I won the race home.

By ten o'clock three more pilots had returned, making five in all, and we sat down to a terrific breakfast of bacon and eggs and champagne (the chef had produced the champagne). One by one, the pilots came back; practically everyone had shot something down, and many had been damaged slightly. Kenny had the whole of one side of his aeroplane blown out, but he got it home with only a single strand of wire working the controls. "Sneezy," while chasing a Messerschmitt 109, had in turn been attacked by four more, and had led a follow-my-leader race down the main street at Dunkirk, only shaking them off by diving between a gasometer and a crane.

There were only two pilots missing, and our squadron score was 10 destroyed, 3 probables, and 3 damaged. By 4 o'clock, it was known that the two missing pilots had not got back to this country. They were Donald and Ralph, my two friends.

We never heard of them again.


August 14th 1940. Hurricanes diving on Ju 87’s.


Hurricanes could take a lot of damage. The Hurricane of Sub-Lt Begg who joined 151 Squadron from the Fleet Air Arm on July 1st 1940. Damage like this was quickly repaired and the plane returned to action. Begg was shot down and wounded in August, and reported missing in action in November 1942, aged 25.


My 'Waiting for Clod' thread: http://tinyurl.com/bqxc9ee

Always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.
Elie Wiesel. Romanian born Jewish writer, professor, political activist, Nobel Laureate, Holocaust survivor. 1928 - 2016.

Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts. C.S. Lewis, 1898 - 1963.