65 Squadron, Tangmere, mid-afternoon, 16 August 1940

Unfortunately those stubborn Naval people have not yet given up on coastal convoys. Our next mission is to put up a patrol over one, happily not too far away to the south-east. We can manage only five Spitfires, but that's fair enough for this sort of mission.



I'm quickly leaving Tangmere behind and turning back towards the Channel.



By the time we're crossing the coast, the boys are in position, with Red 2 and 3 either side behind, and Blue 1 and 2 off to our left rear.



Climbing harder now, I ask the Controller if he has any trade for us. Which he has, as it happens. Pretty well straight ahead.



As we climb I'm conscious that Red 3 - Skidmore - is living up to his name. Watch what you're doing, you clot!



I push the stick forward and bank left to give him a bit more space, but it's too late. As the others look on in horror, Red 3 clips my Spitfire! Up ahead are the Bandits, but it seems this is as close a look as I'm going to get at them.



Red 3 goes straight down in a vertical dive; there's no sign of a 'chute. My own kite is still answering controls, but power is dropping and I'm trailing smoke, as I begin to fall behind the others.



I order them to split formation in the hope they'll go for the Huns. For myself, I'll be lucky to get home. I quickly turn back north towards the coast. I've been hurt as badly as my Spitfire, by the look and sound of it.



Fearful of passing out from shock and loss of blood, I bail out...



...leaving my abandoned Spitfire to her fate. Again.



Happily, I am saved, but Skidmore has bought it.



I spend an eventful ten days in hospital. My return isn't made any happier by the fact that (though not visible below) my trusty number 2, McAulley, with seven victories to his name, is reported killed while I am away.



Looking on the bright side of life, replacements in men and machines have brought us well back up to strength.



Time to have another crack at the Huns!