Some called it a rest

Some called it a rest – After a regulated deal of hours and/or sorties, depending upon the theatre of fighting, a fighter pilot had to stand down. This usually meant that he had to instruct at an operational training unit for several months. So, I was sent to No. 57 Operational Training Unit (OTU) at Hawarden in North Wales.

The Padre & Recreation

The Padre – The first time, and the last, that I had anything to do with a military padre was before the military got smart and put the right words into padres’ mouths. A young padre of the Tangmere Wing came to visit “B” Flight just before we were about to go on a sweep over France. Each of us in the Flight had the usual difficult-to-spit mouth; dry as a bone. The very first words that the young padre volunteered were, “Now, it is a probability that one or more of you may not be returning this afternoon…” and before he could get another word out, he was on his way out the screen door of the hut without a foot on the floor. (Can you imagine, uh?)

2 – 2 = 0

2 – 2 = 0 – The RAF fighter Command made no money with me as a fighter pilot as the fabulous score of two ME 109’s which I shot down was equated to my being shot down upon two occasions, and both times the kites were written off.

The first ME 109 which I shot down (July 8, 1941, and confirmed by Billie Raine) was in a beehive over the Lille area of France. I spent too much time on the guy’s tail before I got the sights of my kite out in front of him and I was lucky that I was not clobbered myself and I remember that I gave him about a two second burst of the small bore. The 109 was afire and the pilot bailed out. In this particular melee we lost two pilots.

My first fighter leave

My first fighter leave – Ron Gridly and I first met when I was staying at one of the most sophisticated hotels in London – the YMCA. We met in the swimming pool. Grid was a Canadian in the peacetime RAF and he eventually married the beautiful red-headed Ruth who had maintained a stable of prostitutes in London.

My beautiful goggles

My beautiful goggles – On my left eyebrow area, a small scar and indent were left when my goggles were kindly removed by a passing bullet. I didn’t mind the cut, but the bullet smashed my brand-new goggles. I was proud of the fancy, white goggles which my Mother had sent to me.

Ironies

Ironies – The ironies of happenings were, at times, ridiculous. One afternoon, Dixie made an emergency landing at Manston aerodrome. On the way out of France, he flew over an E (flak) boat in the Channel and he ran his cannons and small bore from stem to stern over the boat. In return, one lousy bullet entered Dixie’s cockpit and the bullet tore the muscle from the back of his right leg. He had to keep from bleeding to death while trying to get to the nearest aerodrome which happened to be Manston. He passed out at the end of his erratic landing roll. On the other hand, and on the same sortie that afternoon, Stoopie Stoop was mauled in a dogfight and we counted no less than 72 bullet and shell holes in the length of the fuselage of his Spit and the rascal did not have a scratch on him.

Whistling & Friston, Sussex

Whistling – The cannons on the Spitfires had rubber caps over the open ends of the barrels in order to keep the barrels clean and to keep moisture out. These caps were referred to as “French safes.” When a Spit returned to base after an operational flight with the safes blown, the open ends of the barrels had a type of whistling like nothing else. This meant, of course, that the returning pilot had fired the cannons and the pertinent ground crew was stirred to excitement and they would jump onto the mainplanes before the Spit came to a stop at the dispersal point to ask the pilot what he (they) had gotten. If a pilot reported that he had missed then the ground crew would leave the pilot in disgust, but if the pilot had been successful he would be lifted from the cockpit bodily.

49 years of Scots

49 years of Scots – Jock was an old man of 31 years of age, and Red was a young rascal of 18 years, and I loved them. They were a couple of wild Scotsmen and they were my ground crew.

When I got into my (sorry, our) kite, the rudder pedals were always set at the correct distance for me, my helmet was on the control column and plugged into the RT and oxygen outlets, my left gauntlet was hung behind the throttle lever and the right one was on the landing-gear lever, the trims were set, they always helped to fasten my parachute and Sutton harnesses, and they started the engine more times than I did both day and night. One had to be careful not to mention the simplest of things wrong with the aeroplane as Jock and Red would ground the kite until it was 100 percent again; they were of the old school of conscientious craftsmanship, thank God.

Richie’s point & It was a tough day

Richie’s point – Richie landed after a wild sortie complaining to his ground crew that the back of his cockpit seat was very uncomfortable. His ground crew went immediately to inspect the seat. They came back to the Flight hut with grins on their faces and they wanted Richie to go back out to the kite with them to see what the uncomfortableness was all about. Richie was aghast at the object which had annoyed him while he tried to settle back into the seat. An armour-piercing bullet had entered the quarter-inch thick steel plating on the back of the seat, and the bullet had expended its energy with the point sticking out far enough to nag Richie’s back every time that he leaned back in the seat.