At “G” I saw more Spitfires than I had hitherto imagined possible to park on one field. Truly Britain’s might in the skies, little dreaming of the future hades to come. After a “confab,” it was passed around that we were to sweep the Dunkirk area as a protection for the evacuation. Our squadron were chosen to be top dogs above three others, and had to be content to waffle along at about 26,000 feet. “Oh Christ,” was said a dozen times if it was said once. I myself was one offender when the valve on the oxygen bottle would only turn with the greatest of difficulty. These things normally don’t worry me much, but the tense state of mind led to far less patience with the things which weren’t “just so.”
At last with a thunderous roar we all took off and sorted out our respective positions. I saw nothing of the other three squadrons after we approached the English coast, being busy keeping station and sharp look-out. In fact to be precise, I saw nothing of anything the whole trip. A completely uneventful trip apart from a bloody chilly feeling where my feet ought to have been. After a slight miscalculation by the C.O. we pancaked back on the runways at “K.” The squadron-leader had had us quite perturbed for a quarter of an hour, during which time we looked over the side to see only sea, and plenty of it, and a low fuel-gauge reading didn’t exactly promote a contented frame of mind. It was damn funny really, on reflection, to see the whole squadron open out on crossing the English coast, in failing light and poor visibility, every one trying to be the first in establishing our position and sighting our base. The trip cost us one aeroplane when the undercart failed to come down on one chap’s “kyte,” resulting in a sensational tearing noise as terra firma grabbed at his fuselage. There was one other “ring-twitch” effort when a sergeant-pilot, “Jock,” landed across the runway and looked all the way as though he had an urgent date with a scrap heap. Anyway, hard application of brakes to the tune of sergeant-major’s rhetoric averted another calamity.
That night we were very thankful to two W.A.A.F. N.C.O.s who, although they weren’t cooks (at least according to R.A.F. documents), turned out a lovely set of cooked suppers for the sergeant-pilots, an event which I shan’t forget quickly.
The next morning we had an early “stand-to” period, when another invasion rumour seemed to grip every one, then after breakfast we shoved-off to our marshalling base at “G” again. Here was a repetition of yesterday’s landscape except that another squadron had tootled in to swell the band of happy pilgrims.
We did two sweeps over Dunkirk that day, at least the squadron did, as I had to stand down on the first one to let our spare men have a crack. These two sweeps were replicas of the first with yours-truly doing “tail-end Charlie” at 25,000 feet or over, not seeing anything, and learning afterwards that one or two of the lower boys had a few sharp tussles. I suppose, though, we served our purpose in protecting the mob from attack from above. Most of the officers and sergeants saw no reason why on the next trip we shouldn’t be one of the lower squadrons and let someone else have a go at the synthetic ozone. At least, I thought the lower temperature would make us more comfortable. We all had a moan to the C.A. about it, and he in turn was in full agreement.
That evening we returned to our parent station at “D,” much to every one’s delight, for it was here that the squadron was born and brought up, right to the time of opening this narrative. They didn’t expect us, but we managed to find some beds belonging to blokes on leave. No doubt profanity filled the air when our cheeky apologies for the use of their comforts were conveyed to them.
No peace for the wicked. 6 a.m. next morning saw us awake and numbers in the air within a quarter of an hour, still rubbing tired eyes and yawning too. The “kytes” had been worked on all through the night by a small bloody keen bunch of grease monkeys. And all the technical hitches had been unknotted.
This time it was an entirely different aerodrome, at “M,” that we used for a forward base, but the scenery when we’d landed was entirely the same as the view from the tarmac at “G.” Aeroplanes to the right of me, aeroplanes to the left of me, aeroplanes in front, in fact, aeroplanes. It was quite comforting to see this local display of might, and we all had a feeling of confident optimism that, whatever happened, the sparks would certainly fly, given half a chance. I (and the others) had been here before and knew the general layout, but it didn’t matter since we didn’t get the chance to stray any distance from our machines.
A cup of tea was available, at this unearthly hour, from a N.A.A.F.I. van. The time of day, coupled with the fact that the beverage was gratis, caused us much speculation as to the coming trip.
The various C.O.’s of the participating squadrons had visited the Ops. Room, where the general scheme was outlined to them and they, in their turn, made arrangements for mutual safety and efficiency. Once more, so we were told, we were to be “stooge” squadron of the group, which would be stepped-up, squadron at a time, at intervals of about 4,000 feet. We estimated that taking-off as quickly as was safe we would all be in the correct position when we crossed the coast S.E. There was no need for the squadron-leader to say, “Have you all got that?” since we’d now had two days’ practice at being “good Samaritans,” besides which it’s remarkable the interest in the finer points one takes when life might be suddenly terminated.
The morning was fresh with haze up to about 4,000 feet and between that and 6,000 feet there were some patchy bits of cloud. In fact, a typical summer’s morning, that foretold a brilliant day of sunshine, which indeed it turned out to be. Getting away was done surprisingly quick considering our machines were mixed amongst the mob generally. A little “pedalling” on the rudder-bar, plenty of hard pressure on the brake-lever and we had taxied clear of the other parked aircraft, amidst a cloud of dust, since this particular station was noted for its dry soil qualities.
We took off in “vic’s” of three aircraft. Jock was No. 2 on the right, with myself on the left as No.3 of our section, which was led by a daring but experienced flying-officer. We were termed “Yellow” section, and brought up the rear of the four sections which comprised the squadron. The others being Blue, leading, followed by Green and Red sections.
Very quickly we took up our positions, and when Blue Leader, the C.O., called up over the “R/T,” “Are you in position Green, Red and Yellow leaders?” all were able to reply in the affirmative. As we climbed up, circling the aerodrome, we were given a precautionary warning to use the weak mixture to conserve our fuel, and also be sparing with oxygen. Meanwhile the other squadrons were following in our wake, having taken-off behind us.
The intention was to cross the English coast at 7 a.m., all stationed correctly at our prearranged heights – 27,000 feet for us. By this time the squadron-leader had earned the title of “Oxygen Charlie,” owing to our close proximity to the celestial bodies on each of these shows. The actual sweep over French soil was to last an hour, since our fuel supply wouldn’t leave us a good fighting margin if this period were exceeded.
Whilst we were gaining height, every one settled down, and I found myself doing the routine things such as trimming the aircraft to fly nicely to the hand, adjusting the seat and straps for safety and comfort, setting the gunsights, and switching on the necessary heaters which neutralise the cold at high altitude, so preventing freezingup of the instruments. I found myself very apprehensive. Would we meet anything this time? I wondered if the Jerries are as crafty as they say in using the sun and extra height. Anyhow I’d much rather be up here than one of those poor blighters on the beach at Dunkirk. I visualised the morning papers of the past few days, each prominently displaying a map of the battle area, the same area to which we were heading, and each showing a complete encirclement of the Dunkirk locality by German armoured divisions. Why had we been trapped like it – were the German chiefs too clever, or was it muddling; if the latter, WHY?
In much the same way as in a dream my mind seemed to flit from thought to thought, sometimes with no fixed relationship, and constantly running through the advice of more experienced pilots: If they get on your tail – go into a steep