DW-D

DW-D – When Francis-Knight was our Flight Commander, a new Spitfire was flown in. The letters “DW-D” were to be painted on the newly arrived kite but most of the pilots said that they would not fly a kite with a “D” on it; suspiciously, “D” had previously killed too many, and it was strongly suggested that “D” should be left out of the alphabetical context. Francis-Knight, never the suspicious type, said in an officious tone, “Paint ‘D’ on that aircraft.”

A flying can-opener & The Rolls Royce Merlin

A flying can-opener – One evening, among many, a number of ME 109’s beat up Westhampnett. They made a mess of a few kites, including mine (DW-V), and they, also, messed up some aircraft of No. 616 Squadron on the opposite side of the field. I wondered what the odds were of the phenomenal happening to my Spitfire. It was opened down the razor-like back as a can-opener would open a tin-can; all the way from the empennage to the spinner, but my Spit was not set on fire.

It was miserable, at times, having to dive into a short slit trench when the enemy worked the field over and more so when the damn trench had a deal of water in it.

The worst fright

The worst fright – The worst fright that I ever received as a fighter pilot was not from bullets entering the fuselage or me, as those situations had a tendency to make one annoyed. Nor was it trying to force land a riddled Spitfire as one didn’t have time to think about anything else. The worst fright was waking up and finding that I was flying formation, before daybreak, on the navigation lights of my leader’s Spitfire. This happened when many day Squadrons also did the night fighting, and because of the lack of experienced pilots, one would be on dusk patrol only to find that one would, also, be called for dawn patrol at about 0300 hours. I remembered being wakened by the batman. I remembered being driven in our small van to the mess and eating breakfast there and wondering whether or not to put catsup or marmalade on my sausage. I remembered the drive to the Flight and putting on a bulky, fleecy jacket and curling up into a big chair to cat-nap while the engines were being run up. But I was not able to recall anything from the big chair to the action of flying formation in the darkness. This frightened me to the point where I told the MO (medical officer) that it might happen again. His answer was, “Everybody seems to be having this trouble lately. It’s a normal reaction, so try and get some rest whenever you are able.”

Caruso

Caruso – The old RT (radio telephone) sets in the early Spitfires had to be switched one way for receiving and in the opposite way for broadcasting. The microphone was in the canvas mask portion of the old type of leather helmet along with the oxygen intake. The switching set-up meant that one had to frig with the switch when, on many an occasion, more important things had to be done within the cockpit and, indeed, looking outside of the cockpit while fighting. So it was decided by the powers-that-were that all RT sets would be altered so that the fighter pilot could listen out and talk without having to touch the switch whatsoever. Now, one was able to hear pilots cursing under their breath, singing and humming, moaning either by nature or by legitimate injury, sneezing and coughing, praying, and so on.

Lifetime seconds & A typical return

Lifetime seconds – The longest period of time that I spent in a Spitfire was actually only in seconds. These seconds lead up to the opportune time. The opportune time was awaited while a buddy, across the way in a wide, line abreast formation, was telling me to sit tight as there was a ME 109 coming down on my tail and the buddy would tell me when to break at the opportune time or second; Break too soon and the ME 109 could break inside and put his sights out in front of me and on the other hand break too late, and well ........ . Those seconds were longgggggg.

Right idea, wrong formation

Right idea, wrong formation – Bullfrog always insisted that if one were caught alone over France and high in the sky, such as after a beehive, then one should try to join up with any friendly stray aircraft on the way home. I did this one time and as I was approaching the aircraft up and in front of me I was extremely busy keeping a watch behind me. I eventually joined formation with a snarly looking ME 109 going in my direction. The Nazi pilot’s eyes were as large as saucers as, indeed, mine probably were. We both grinned with our eyes and waved. Neither broke away, of course, until we finally agreed by hand signal count to break. On the count, I broke from the yellow-nose (the spinner of the ME 109 was painted yellow) and headed full-bore for the deck and came screaming back across the Channel at nought feet and up over the cliffs of England like a dog with its tall between its legs. I was watching the pilot’s eyes every second and I didn’t even notice the identification markings of his aircraft. I have often thought about him, and how I would have liked to have met him on peaceful ground. He was, of course, very lucky to be alive as he didn’t see me approaching from behind. I never said anything to the guys when I got back, but I found out later that some of them had been in such a situation.

The Squadron’s signature

The Squadron’s signature – 610 was noted for its ability to fly close formation and Bullfrog insisted upon maintaining this standard. On numerous occasions, the Squadron flew as a body, generally from nine to twelve aircraft, either up or down through thousands of feet of clouds. It was a cocky and dangerous feat and I remember that the aeroplane and its tail-wheel in front of me, upon which I was closely formatting by three or four feet just below the slipstream, was usually a dull shadow within the wet clouds of stratus or strata cumulus formations. At a time when the air was clear and heavy, it was a great feeling to see, at a quick glance, all the Spitfires of the Squadron gently riding an unseen swell. When we sometimes came back from over France as a whole, Bullfrog used to ask us to tuck in and then he would, for instance, cut across the City of Brighton so low that I could feel my rear end grazing and cleaning the steeple tips and chimney pots.