Fortunately, after I had landed, I didn’t switch off my wireless, and heard the controller tell Bogle to stay up there as there was one Jerry still about. I thought, “Blast this for a game of darts,” and took off again. Not finding my leader, I thought the only place the Hun would be would most probably be above cloud, so I started to climb.
As I emerged from cloud over London, I sighted a two-engined craft “stooging” over the town. I felt sure this was a Hun; my heart missed about three beats as I pointed the nose of my Spit. in its direction. Setting my sights for JU. 88, I felt sure it would be one. According to the powers that be, the blokes what know or the aces, I then did a very foolish thing – instead of hopping in and out of cloud and stalking the swine, I flew straight up to him and at about 400 to 300 yards opened fire with a slight deflection shot.
The “E/A” immediately dived for cloud (he was an 88 by the way) with myself hard on his tail. I got really annoyed with him, because he was going very fast, and I didn’t seem to be doing any damage, although I was pumping lead into him as hard as I could go. I spotted tracer leaving my port outer gun (that is what I thought). On looking more closely, it wasn’t my bullets at all, but a spot of return fire from the rear gunner. Boy! was I shaken! I then proceeded to “rub the guy out,” as they say, but before I could get cracking, he had reached cloud. What was I to do? Follow, or what? I thought that he might come above cloud again, so I flattened out; by this time I had reached another layer of head-cloud, or I should say a corridor between two layers. There below and just behind on the left I spotted my Hun still diving. I wiped the kite over into a steep left-hand turn and endeavoured to get on his tail again.
At this point I flashed past a Spitfire, but was too intent on the bloke in front to wonder whether it was my leader or not. As it happened it was, and afterwards Bogie said that I shot past like a thing possessed. He got away in cloud again, and this time I didn’t see him again. I continued diving and set out for the coast in the hope of sighting him again on the way home – but no luck! I just had to be content with shooting-a-line. This gentle art had become quite a favourite of mine by this time; in fact, I had become quite an ace – to my own mind, that is.
October 5th, 1940. About this time (I can’t quite remember the exact dates but as far as I can remember) Bob and Bogle got their D.F.C.’s, much to the great enthusiasm of all the rest of us. Bogle had to his credit about 13 unconfirmed 109’s, many of which he last saw spinning for cloud on fire. These he could not confirm. We used to pull his leg no end about the “lines” that used to appear in the papers about his decoration!
On the 4th October, my flight-commander went out with two others, the names of which I forget off-hand, after a Heinkel III and he failed to return. His body was washed-up about a week or so later; a very fine chap he was too, and one of the best shots in the R.A.F. also. If he had lived, he would most probably be a D.S.O., D.F.C. “type,” by now.
After this, “Cookie” took over the flight. He had once been shot down in flames – the scars could still be seen on his face then. He was a good pilot and a good leader; also, he was very fond of odd games of poker.
On this particular day, I think I was flying as his No. 3 or it may have been that I was “tail-end Charlie!” I was usually put there, because I joined the squadron as a fully operational pilot.
Well, we had been stooging around for an hour or more, when we sighted a formation of 109’s, about fifteen of ’em, below us, thank goodness. Most of them were usually above by the time we arrived on the scene.
Things happened fast; the boys went into line astern, and I, being above the squadron, dropped down into the best open space in the formation.
I vividly remember seeing on this particular trip an ME. streaking for the ground with black smoke pouring from its yellow-nosed engine, hotly pursued by a Spitfire. Boy! what a thrilling sight. I think I shouted, “Atta boy, give him hell, chum,” or words to that effect. Machines split up and went in all directions – the fight was on. I followed one of the boys down until I spotted a 109 going for home. I immediately got on to his tail and was after him like a dog for its dinner.
Closing to about 300 or 400 yards, I opened fire, the bullets roared out over the noise of the engine. They don’t rattle like an ordinary Army Vickers gun. No sir! When the 8 Brownings open fire – what a thrill! The smoke whips back into the cockpit and sends a thrill running down your spine.
The Jerry seemed to jump in the air and start a gradual descent. I followed, giving short bursts. As I closed upon him, I saw that we were overtaking another 109 at a slightly greater height than we were.
I didn’t fancy being shot up the back by this one, so I left my Jerry to his fate, and opened fire upon the second. Nothing much happened to him and by this time we were overtaking a third, this one being also higher and to the right. I held my fire after breaking away from No. 2 and put a burst into No. 3. He semi-half rolled and dived for the coast. Opening my throttle, I was after him, also giving short burst. This one then suddenly climbed for the sun. As he did so, I pulled my nose up and had him cold. I pressed the button…nothing happened. I had run out of ammunition. Did I swear? I’ll say.
To my surprise, the Jerry flattened out and began to glide down again. I presumed he was gliding because I began to overtake him… Throttling back so that I could see what would happen to him…hoping against hope that I should see him crash into the sea.
At this point everything seemed quiet, but I’m afraid “all was not gold that glittered” at that moment. There was, all of a sudden, a terrific explosion inside the cockpit, and smoke seemed to be coming from the engine – not the smell of my guns, but an acrid stench. “What the hell was that?” I thought, and checked my instruments. At that moment I knew all right what it was when a shower of bullets hit my aircraft and something banged my leg with a sickening thud. I didn’t wait to see “who threw that,” but did a complete half-roll to the left and went down in a tight spiral turn, craning my neck to see if there was anything on my tail.
When I reached about 10,000 feet (this all happened at about 25,000 feet) I flattened out, and boy! was I sweating. I collected my thoughts together and prepared to check my aircraft for damage – checking flaps and nothing happened; then trying my wheels, I found they only came down half-way. I put them up and set course for base. My hydraulic system had been hit and my right trouser leg and flying boot were covered in oil – anti-freeze, Mark II, or whatever it is.
By this time my left leg was beginning to ache a bit, so I decided to see what damage was done there. I couldn’t see anything and my boot seemed to be O.K. Feeling inside, I felt blood soaking through my sock – right, now I knew that I had been hit – how badly I couldn’t tell. Winding the rudder bias so that my right leg took all the weight, I prepared for my landing.
Approaching the ’drome, I set all my gadgets and put the undercart lever in the “down” position; it only went down half-way, so I decided to use the emergency CO2 bottle. This brought it right down and locked it.
I then made my circuit and at the appropriate time turned in to land; my landing speed was very fast, because of course I had no flaps. As I neared the ground, I realised that it would be rather a hazard landing, as my windscreen was covered with this oil, rendering my forward vision very bad.
As she sank, I realised I was holding off too high, so I had to give it a short burst of engine to lower it gently to the ground. By this time I was half-way across the very small ‘drome and looked like running off the edge.
Fortunately for me, my right tyre was punctured, so as I ran along I was pulled to the right, which slowed me up considerably. When I climbed out the ambulance came tearing up and I was taken to the M.O. Actually, it was a surface wound – the bullet had come from the back of the aircraft and passed through my boot, cutting a nice furrow in the fleshy part of my leg, and continuing out of the front of my boot.
The C.O. decided that I had better have a day off, so I packed up my things and set off for home, feeling rather an ass on the quiet.
October 7th, 1940. It was about this time that we