Looking around, can see an air fight in the distance. I turn towards it. The airwaves are filled with the usual calls, so our boys are obviously still involved – our squadrons do not share radio channels.
My priority when re-joining a fight is always a Hun chasing one of ours, but the action is widely scattered and no such target presents itself. Instead, I latch onto another 110, conscious that a couple of his friends are not far away.



I get some hits on the 110…



…but am suddenly hit myself. I noticed some return fire from the 110, but I’ve a nasty feeling that the hits came from behind, from one of those other Messerschmitts. So in a bit of a funk, I get out of there, quickly. It doesn’t help that some Ack Ack, presumably directed at my target, is bursting very close to me.



As if this business isn’t dangerous enough!

But I quickly confirm that there’s no Hun chasing me. Angry that my timidity has cause me to lose ground, I resume the chase.



If the 110 wasn’t sufficiently damaged in my first pass, he’s probably got the speed to get away, now. But I manage to catch him up and the chase is on again.



I try a long range burst, in an effort to keep him turning. This has unexpected results - the Hun suddenly flips over, out of control! Maybe I winged the pilot.



Down he goes, with me watching warily. This could well be some underhand trickery, for which the wily Hun is of course well-known.



Sure enough, the 110 recovers and tries to get away again. Naturally, I go after him, having checked my tail is still clear. The Hun is going down in a gentle dive and as he passes across a bank of cloud, I notice that he’s leaving a faint trail of smoke. This looks more promising!



At his current rate of descent, there’s no way the 110 is going to reach the coast, let alone get back across the Channel. But that’s apparently what he’s trying to do. So I decide to have another crack at him.



This has the desired effect. One of his engines was already stopped; now, the prop on the other one is whirling to a halt, too.



That’s enough, I decide. Any further shooting on my part would be unsporting; indeed, it would be downright gratuitous violence, and just not done.

Sadly, the 110’s forced landing goes badly, for no obvious reason. This seems to happen a lot, which is one reason I’m always reluctant to force land myself. People ‘spiking’ open fields in the invasion zone with obstacles designed to hamper glider landings, however well-intentioned, doesn’t help friend or foe, in such circumstances. I do wish somebody would put a stop to it.



I’m disappointed my opponent didn’t fare better, but ‘rather them than me’ is my parting thought, as I look back at the site of their prang.



I head for home and call off the pack, to find that they are already doing likewise.



In fact, I remember hearing a couple of them announcing as much during the air fight. So it’s no surprise when I get back to find that two other Spits besides my own were slightly damaged. But none of the boys was hurt and Red 3 is claiming a Hun; to which I quickly add my own two claims. Three for no loss will do nicely.

It was after this fight that I was told by the CO (presumably the Station Commander, as I’m actually leading the squadron in action) that I’ve been awarded the Military Cross (which is generally for derring-do on the ground, not in the air). I’d have been much better pleased if they had delivered the half-dozen or more Spitfires we need to get back up to something like full strength. Word is, the factories are churning out fighters at a rate of knots, so why are we are perennially short of them? Somebody up the chain of command needs to get the finger out. Come on, you people – ‘exdigitate’!