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.

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.

Gliders

Gliders – I used to feel sorry for the glider pilots who went aloft so that fighter pilots could practice attacks on their gliders. There was a scare that gliders might be used in an invasion of England.

Cannons

Cannons – 610 was the second squadron to receive Spitfires fitted with two Hispano cannons and four Browning machine guns. There was trouble with the cannons at the start as they would stop firing after only four rounds and this was embarrassing when fighting. So upon repair, the armourers asked that the cannons be tested in the air.

Elphin

Elphin – The Squadron’s call signal was “Elphin.” This always amused me when I looked around, and surveyed the angels in “B” Flight.

The Flight headquarters was a tiny room in a Nissen hut and there was a beaten path to a little outhouse nearby where each pilot went to have his nervous one before take-off, or failing this, waited until he could piddle near the rudder of his kite before scrambling into the crowded cockpit.

The Flight hangar for repairing the aeroplanes was a tarpaulin strung between trees in the woods nearby.

Crowley Milling

Crowley Milling – Crowley, our Flight Commander, was shot down along with Billie Raine and Pete Wright early one morning. We didn’t hear what happened to Crowley and we were resigned to thinking that he was missing and presumed dead. Billie and Pete were killed. Several weeks went by. Well, while McWatt and I were playing a game of shove-hapenny in the Flight hut, who should walk through the door but the living ghost, Crowley. He managed to escape when he bailed out over France. He told us of his experiences thinking that they might be of value to anyone who might be shot down and able to escape in the future. He told of sleeping with a big pig in a barn for a number of nights, and he related, “The stench of the pig was horrible but the heat that pig gave off was tremendous.” He mentioned that while on the move in urban areas he rested by standing in queues, and that he stayed in prostitutes’ houses whenever possible. One of the most ingenious actions that he made was when he was walking along a country road and all of a sudden he stumbled onto a Nazi guard post ahead. They spied him, but Milling, always the fast thinker, immediately pulled his trousers down and had a crap right in the middle of the road. Then he progressed in the direction of the guard post incorporating the actions of some local idiot, with the result that the guards would have nothing to do with him and they let him go on his way. (The well organized underground escape system in France was developed later on.)