Another bit of inside information is the never-ending argument which wages between pilots who like aerobatics and those who don’t. The former school of thought – to which your humble servant subscribes – maintains that aerobatics are good for the soul and are completely essential to a successful fighter-pilot. The latter – sometimes called dead-beat school – will assure you that aerobatics are bad for the aeroplanes, and for the instruments, and are completely non-essential in the shooting down of a Hun. They may be perfectly correct, but we (and by we I speak for the school of aerobatic thought) consider that a man cannot be master of his aeroplane until he has done everything humanly possible with it. And further, that until a man is complete master of his aeroplane, he has no right to charge about the sky, as he constitutes a menace to friend and foe alike. We agree that a dog-fight with a Hun very rarely entails a considered aerobatic movement as an evasive action. In fact, the more ham-fisted the movement, the better its effect.
I have often seen aircraft firing whilst on their backs when in the middle of an almighty scrap, and I’m sure that it is not possible to sight accurately whilst on your back unless you have practised flying in this manner time and time again. I remember an ME. 109 giving me what I presumed to be an unintentional aerobatic display one fine day in 1940. It happened that I heard the rattle of guns behind me and took very violent evasive action. As I did so, an ME. 109 flashed past me, pulled up in front, and performed a complete flick roll before shooting earthwards. What he had obviously intended to do on overshooting me was to flick over and spin down, but being a little ham, he overdid the manœuvre and came out the right way up. I was so enthralled by the picture that I forgot to fire until he was on his way earthwards.
When trying to recall to memory events of this nature, it’s surprising how the little things stand out in the mind. The ME. I was just telling you about had a huge red nose, and to this day, if I close my eyes and think about the action, I can distinctly see in my mind’s eye that red nose flashing past me.
Another funny thing about combat is the vague and jumbled picture that one gets immediately afterwards. I can only remember having seen the black crosses on a German machine on two occasions. I think one knows instinctively when an aeroplane is hostile. On one occasion I had beaten up a 109, and his engine was stopped. I yelled out jubilantly over the Radio Telephony, “I’ve just got a 109.” Yet on landing, the only clear recollection I had of the action was of seeing the other fellow’s parachute going down.
I expect most people wonder what it must be like to have to bale-out. I used to wonder also, until one day when I had a collision in the air. I didn’t know the full extent of the damage to my aeroplane, all I knew was that I’d got no airscrew, and the other fellow’s tail-plane had knocked my windscreen off. I was at 6,000 feet, which isn’t too high, and I had to make a horrible decision – to bale-out or try and force-land. The latter would entail the risk of the aircraft falling to pieces on me, whilst I didn’t like to think of the former. The thing which decided me was the fact that I’d instinctively loosened all my straps and tubes and I couldn’t risk a crash-landing unless I was tightly strapped in. So over the side I went, with my hand on the rip-cord. I honestly don’t remember falling or pulling the rip-cord, or even letting it go, but my next impression is one of a deathly silence and a huge canopy above me. I seemed to be stationary ’twixt Heaven and Earth. I finally landed up a tree, hanging twenty feet from the ground. When I scrambled down the trunk, the Home Guard were all for shooting me. I managed to convince them of my identity, however, before they took that step, and went to a nearby house where I was treated to a distinctly large whisky with a touch of soda.
What glorious days those were: blue English skies, with always the chance of seeing a Hun. Knowing that your country depended on you, that every one’s prayers and hopes were with you; the excitement of the chase; the exhilaration of seeing your opponent going down in flames, whilst at the same time knowing that your chances were equal. The trip home at unprecedented speeds; your base; the final beat-up with the inevitable upward Charlie or victory roll. And then your fitter’s jubilance at your success; a cup of steaming-hot tea, and after that, who knows?
On that note I will leave you to read the true stories of a few fighter-pilots.
H.A.
Duggie is of medium height, stocky build, dark and very quiet until you get him on a party; the type of bloke that never asks fool questions and thinks well before he answers. He has a peculiar short, nervous laugh, a grand sense of humour and a wonderful knack of enjoying every minute of life. He has an enormous beer-drinking capacity and once dumbfounded the petty-officers of a well-known destroyer by drinking all except one of them under the table.
He was the senior sergeant-pilot and one of the most important blokes in the squadron, a first-class peelow and very definite capabilities as an organiser and administrator.
I hope that shortly he will get his commission, and that we will be able to retain him in the squadron. I also look forward to the day when he will become a flight-commander, a job which I know he will do exceptionally well.
Duggie’s Story
THE curtain goes up at the end of May when “Peacekrieg” became “Blitzkrieg” with a vengeance. Apart from two “shows” at the time of Rotterdam’s fall, the squadron had seen practically no action. Following these “do’s” we made two moves in quick succession, remaining at one aerodrome for little over a week. Having barely landed and refuelled after our last shift, one of the flight-commanders went about rounding up the majority of sergeant-pilots, telling them in hushed tones that we were going places, and advising us to get small kit packed up in ten minutes, ready to fly again. During that ten minutes we rushed to our quarters in the mess, some of us grumbling about the lack of warning and all the messing around we’d suffered during the past fortnight. A plaintive murmur in colonial English from “Digger” – “I shan’t be able to write to me wife” – and we all burst out laughing, since every day regularly, this newly-wed had told his Doris of his love and other sweet nothings. After delving into kit which had just arrived, and swearing “not by Kolynos,” I managed to sort out the necessary. It’s funny, but when you are told of an impending offensive action, you all get so keyed-up with the future trip as the predominant subject of your grey matter, even to the extent of becoming forgetful about the ordinary things of life. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to see someone who is turfed out of bed for a sweep at short notice, clamber into his aircraft in pyjamas, having forgotten all about the minor detail of a pair of slacks.
So a quarter of an hour later saw 14 Spitfires take the air with the occupants loaded-up to the eyebrows and resembling the proverbial Xmas tree. Myself, in the restricted space to spare, had crammed a respirator, shaving tackle and all necessities for “bed and board.” If feelings were any criterion I emulated the prince of poultry and felt completely stuffed.
Only one or two pilots besides our C.O. knew the destination, and I’m afraid my formation flying left quite a lot to be desired, as I tried to keep position on my leader with one eye whilst trying to survey the ground below with the other. We were going west, that was certain; then after 40 minutes or so a very large town with balloons easily seen against the sun. Ah, Birmingham, I thought – but what were we doing passing the Midlands like this – were we en route for Ireland? Had the Führer sprung another surprise? Eventually after much speculation (all wrong) we touched down on the runways on a Home Counties aerodrome – “K.” We quickly refuelled and pushed on to another one – “G,” some 10 minutes distant. During