By now, I'm quite alone and the airwaves are silent. It's quite peaceful, picturesque even, after the hectic air fight of a few minutes ago.



The plan is to get as close to the coast as I can before I'm too low to hop out. I judge that allowing for a safety margin, I'm at that point now. But the coast now seems so very close. It would be a shame to chuck away a damaged but repairable Spitfire.



Right. Change of plan. I'm going for a forced landing!



I peer ahead through my oil-spattered windscreen, trying to pick out a suitable length of clear ground ahead. Clear but rising ground to the left - not good. Trees and housing to the right - also not good. In the centre - some trees, but mostly clear. Centre it is, then.



My slippery Spitfire has made a surprisingly good glider, but I seem to run out of height quite quickly towards the end. I'm also going quite fast, so I fishtail a bit to slow her down. I'm still a bit high to get down in the grassy field just ahead, so I resign myself into overshooting into the adjoining cornfield, and steer to avoid the treelines.



Tailwheel and left wing scrape the ground as I try to miss a fence which I suddenly realise I'm going to clip.



The fence stops me dead in my tracks, better than any arrestor wire - and my Spitfire blows up!!!



After knocking down three Heinkels, I feel cheated! Not to mention badly let down by the rest of the squadron. They ignored orders, didn't fire so much as round between them, and lost another aircraft (though not its pilot) to unknown causes. What a shower - nothing personal, but I'm glad to see the back of them!