The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots

by Jon E. Lewis

  The battle had gone to the north. We at this moment were somewhere over the western part of Kent, and a little less than a quarter of an hour had elapsed since we had delivered our first attack on the bombers. Ferdie set course to the north where we could see in the distance the main body of aircraft. London with its barrage balloons floating unconcernedly, like a flock of grazing sheep, ten thousand feet above it, was now feeling the full impact of the enemy bombers. Those that had got through – and the majority of them had – were letting their bombs go. I recalled for an instant Mr Baldwin’s prophecy, not a sanguine one, made to the House of Commons some five years before when he said that the bomber will always get through.

  Now it was doing just that. I wondered if it need have done. As we approached South London the ground beneath us became obscured by smoke from the bomb explosions which appeared suddenly from the most unlikely sort of places – an open field, a house, a row of houses, a factory, railway sidings, all sorts of things. Suddenly there would be a flash, then a cloud of reddish dust obscuring whatever was there before and then drifting away horizontally to reveal once more what was left of the target.

  I saw a whole stick of bombs in a straight line advancing like a creeping barrage such as you would see on the films in pictures like “Journey’s End” or “All quiet on the Western Front”, but this time they were not over the muddy desolation of No-Man’s Land but over Croydon, Surbiton and Earl’s Court. I wondered what the people were like who were fighting the Battle of Britain just as surely as we were doing but in a less spectacular fashion. I thought of the air raid wardens shepherding their flocks to the air raid trenches without a thought of their own safety; the Auxiliary Firemen and the regular fire brigades who were clambering about the newly settled rubble strewn with white-hot and flaming girders and charred wood shiny black with heat, to pull out the victims buried beneath; the nurses, both the professional ones and the V.A.D.’s in their scarlet cloaks and immaculate white caps and cuffs, who were also clambering about the shambles to administer first aid to the wounded and give morphine to the badly hurt; the St John’s Ambulance brigade who always were on the spot somehow no matter where or under what circumstances an accident or emergency occurred, helping, encouraging and uplifting the victims without thought for themselves; the Red Cross and all the civilian volunteers who, when an emergency arises, always go to assist. Not least I thought of the priests and clergy who would also be there, not only to administer the final rites to the dying but to provide an inspiration to those who had lost faith or through shock seemed temporarily lost. The clergy were there all right and showed that their job was not just a once-a-week affair at the Church, but that religion was as much a part of everyday living as was eating and sleeping.

  I felt humble when I thought of what was going on down there on the ground. We weren’t the only people fighting the Battle of Britain. There were the ordinary people, besides these I’ve mentioned, all going about their jobs quietly yet heroically and without any fuss or complaint. They had no mention in the press or news bulletins, their jobs were routine and hum-drum and they got no medals.

  We were now in the battle area once again and the fighting had increased its tempo. The British fighters were becoming more audacious, had abandoned any restraint that they might have had at the outset, and were allowing the bombers no respite at all. If they weren’t able to prevent them from reaching their target they were trying desperately to prevent them from getting back to their bases in Northern France. The air was full of machines, the fighters, British and German, performing the most fantastic and incredibly beautiful evolutions. Dark oily brown streams of smoke and fire hung vertically in the sky from each floundering aircraft, friend or foe, as it plunged to its own funeral pyre miles below on the English countryside. The sky, high up aloft, was an integrated medley of white tracery, delicately woven and interwoven by the fighters as they searched for their opponents. White puffs of ack-ack fire hung limply in mid-air and parachute canopies drifted slowly towards the ground.

  It was an English summer’s evening. It was about a quarter to six. We had been in the air now for about an hour and a quarter and our fuel would not last much longer. We had failed to join up with the rest of the flight, but this was understandable and almost inevitable under the circumstances. I don’t suppose the others were in any formation other than sections now.

  Beneath us at about sixteen thousand feet, while we were at twenty-three, there were four Dorniers by themselves still going north and I presumed, for that reason, they hadn’t yet dropped their bombs. Ferdie had seen them and was making for them. Three Hurricanes in line astern had seen the same target, had overtaken them, turned, and were delivering a head-on attack in a slightly echeloned formation. It was an inspiring sight, but the Dorniers appeared unshaken as the Hurricanes flew towards them firing all the time. Then the one on the port flank turned sharply to the left, jettisoning its bomb load as it went. The leading Hurricane got on to its tail and I saw a sheet of flame spring out from somewhere near its centre section and billow back over the top surface of its wing, increasing in size until it had enveloped the entire machine except the extreme tips of its two wings. I didn’t look at it any more.

  We were now approaching the remaining three Dorniers and we came up directly behind them in line astern. “Get out to port Roger” cried Ferdie “and take the left one.” I slid outside Ferdie and settled my sight on the Dornier’s starboard engine nacelle. We were not within range yet but not far off. The Dorniers saw us coming all right and their rear-gunners were opening fire on us, tracer bullets coming perilously close to our machines. I jinked out to port in a lightning steep turn and then came back to my original position and fired immediately at the gunner and not the engine. The tracers stopped coming from that Dornier. I changed my aim to the port engine and fired again, one longish burst and my “De-Wilde” ammunition ran up the trailing edge of the Dornier’s port wing in little dancing sparks of fire until they reached the engine. The engine exploded and the machine lurched violently for a second as if a ton weight had landed on the wing and then fallen off again for, as soon as the port wing had dropped it picked up again and the bomber still kept formation despite the damage to its engine. The engine was now totally obscured by thick black smoke which was being swept back on to my windscreen. I was too close to the bomber now to do anything but break off my attack and pull away. I didn’t see what had happened to the Dornier that Ferdie had attacked and what’s more I could no longer see Ferdie.

  I broke off in a steep climbing turn to port scanning the sky for a single Spitfire – “C” Charlie. There were lots of lone Spitfires, there were lots of lone Hurricanes and there were lots of lone bombers but it was impossible now and I thought improvident to attempt to find Ferdie in all this mêlée. I began to get concerned about my petrol reserves as we had been in the air almost an hour and a half now and it was a long way back to base.

  I pressed my petrol indicator buttons and one tank was completely empty, the other registering twenty-two gallons. I began to make some hasty calculations concerning speed, time and distance and decided that if I set course for base now and travelled fairly slowly I could make it. I could put down at another airfield of course and get refuelled, but it might be bad policy, especially for a new pilot.

  I called up Ferdie, thinking, not very hopefully, that he might hear me, and told him what I was doing. Surprisingly he came back on the air at once in reply and said that he was also returning to base and asked me if I thought I had got enough fuel. He said that he thought it ought to be enough and added as an after-thought that I should make certain that my wheels and flaps were working satisfactorily before coming too low, for they could be damaged. I thanked him for his advice and listened out. I was by myself now and still in the battle area and I was weaving madly for I realised how vulnerable I was. I was easy meat to German fighters, just their cup of tea, particularly if there should be more than one of them, for the Germans always seem
ed to fancy themselves when the odds were in their favour, particularly numerical odds. It was past six o’clock now and the sun was getting lower in the west, the direction I was travelling in. If I were going to be attacked from the sun, then it would be a head on attack. I felt fairly secure from behind, provided I kept doing steep turns.

  I could see a single Spitfire in front of me and a little lower. It must be Ferdie, I thought at once, and chased after it to catch it up. It would be nice to go back to base together. When I got closer to it I noticed a white stream of Glycol coming away from the underneath. There wasn’t very much but it was enough to tell me that the machine had been hit in the radiator. It seemed to be going down on a straight course in a shallow dive. I got to within about three hundred yards of it and called up Ferdie to ask his position, feeling that he would be sure to tell me if he had been hit in the radiator, although he might not have wanted me to know in the first instance. I got no reply and for a second I became convinced that he had been attacked since I had last spoken to him. I opened up my throttle, although I ought to have been conserving my fuel. From the direct rear all Spitfires look exactly the same and I had to get up close to read the lettering. I came up on its port side and at a distance of about twenty yards. It wasn’t Ferdie. I felt relief. It didn’t belong to Maida Squadron at all. It was “G” for George and belonged to some totally different squadron. I made a mental note of the lettering for “Brains’s” benefit. I closed in a bit to see what it was all about. The Glycol leak wasn’t severe. I couldn’t think what to make of it at all. Perhaps the pilot wasn’t aware of the leak. Perhaps he had baled out already and the machine, as they have been known to, was carrying on alone, like the “Marie Celeste”. Perhaps it was my imagination, an hallucination after the excitement and strain of the past hour. I came in very close to it as though I were in squadron formation and it no longer presented a mystery to me. The pilot was there, his head resting motionless against the side of the perspex hood. Where it was resting, and behind where it was resting, the perspex was coloured crimson. Now and then as the aircraft encountered a disturbance and bumped a little, the pilot’s head moved forward and back again. The hood was slightly open at the front which gave me the impression that he had made an instinctive last minute bid to get out before he had died. The wind had blown into the cockpit and had blown the blood which must have gushed from his head, back along the entire length of the cockpit like scarlet rain. I became suddenly and painfully aware that I was being foolhardy to stay so close as this for a sudden reflex from the pilot, dead though he was, a sudden thrust of the rudder bar or a movement from the stick could hurl the aircraft at me. I swung out and left it. I didn’t look back any more. Before I left it, it had started to dive more steeply, and the Glycol flowed more freely as the nose dipped and the speed increased.

  I thanked God for many things as I flew back away from the din and noise of the battle through the cool and the peace of the evening across the New Forest and above Netley to base. I landed my machine at six-thirty, stepped out and went to the hut.

  Brains was very much in evidence and busy collecting reports from different people. Most of the pilots had landed and Ferdie, I was glad to see, was among them. I gave my report to Brains and Ferdie checked it. I was granted two damaged aircraft and Ferdie got one confirmed and two damaged. There were still three of our pilots unaccounted for. P/O Watty was not down and Red two and Blue two were overdue. We were allowed up to the mess in parties of six at a time, for we were still on readiness until nine o’clock. Ferdie and I went together and discussed the events of the last hour or so. We had some supper and then went down to dispersal again to relieve the others. It was unlikely, I was told, that we should be scrambled again in any strength for it was getting late now and the Germans would hardly be likely to mount another large offensive as late as this.

  Brains was still down in the hut and was spending most of his time at the telephone answering calls from Group Intelligence and making enquiries from other stations as to the possible fate of our own missing pilots. Eventually news came through that Watty was safe but had been shot down near Southampton on his way back to base. He had been attacked by two M.E. 109’s in this area and his machine had been hit in the Glycol tank but he had managed to force-land. He was taken to the hospital there because the Medical Officer had found a rip in his tunic which, upon further investigation, had revealed that he had got some shrapnel of some sort into his arm. We heard later that Red two and Blue two had both been shot down and both of them had been killed. Blue two had gone down in flames in front of a M.E. 110 and Red two had pressed his attack too closely to a Heinkel 111 and had gone into it. Both of these were sergeant pilots.

  The squadron, according to Brains’s assessment, had accounted for eight confirmed aircraft, three probables and seven damaged. There was no further flying that day and we were released at nine o’clock. We went up to the mess as usual and after some drinks we got into our cars and left the camp. We were to rendezvous at The Sunray.

  We got to The Sunray after five minutes or so. It wasn’t far from the aerodrome and was tucked away at the end of a lane leading from the main Weymouth-Wareham road.

  The Sunray was blacked out and it was pitch dark outside when we switched off our lights. We groped our way to the door which Chumley seemed able to find in some instinctive manner. He opened the front door calling to me “Switch your radar on Roger” and pulled aside a blanket which had been rigged up to act as a further precaution to prevent the light from escaping as the main door was opened. We got inside to find the others already drinking. Cocky seemed to be in the chair as Chumley and I came in and he called out “Lost again White Section – biggies coming up for both of you.”

  The Sunray was an old pub and full of atmosphere. The ceilings were low and oak beams ran the entire length of them. In between the beams, the ceiling itself was made of wood of the same colour. It seemed dark at first but there was a liberal amount of lamps, not on the ceiling itself but on the walls, and these gave a soft light that was distinctly cosy. There were tables of heavy oak around which were chairs made out of barrels, highly polished and each containing soft plushy cushions. Around the walls ran an almost continuous cushion-covered bench, and the windows, from what I could see of them, for they were heavily curtained, were made of bottle-glass and were only translucent. The serving bar in the middle of the room was round and from it hung a varied assortment of brilliantly polished copper and brass ornaments. There were roses in copper vases standing on some of the tables and a bowl or two on the bar itself. There were sandwiches beneath glass cases and sausage-rolls as well. The visible atmosphere in the room was cloudy with tobacco smoke which seemed to reach its optimum height a foot or so from the ceiling where it appeared to flatten out and drift in horizontal layers until someone passed through it and then it appeared to follow whoever did so for a moment. There was wireless somewhere in the room, for I could hear music coming from near where I was standing.

  I was by the bar with the others and I had finished my third pint of bitter and was talking to Cocky. The night was quite early yet and Bottle was standing up at the bar with Dimmy, Chumley and Pete; they were all laughing at the top of their voices and a bit further along was Ferdie listening to what might, I think, have been a rather long-drawn-out story from one of the sergeant pilots, while two others seemed impatiently trying to get him to the point. Ferdie seemed to be quite amused at the process. There were two of our Polish pilots here too, both non-commissioned and their names were so difficult to pronounce that we simply called them “Zig” and “Zag”. They didn’t seem to take any offence at this abbreviation. They were excellent pilots, both of them.

  The wireless now started to play the theme of Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake” ballet and when I’d got my sixth pint I mentally detached myself from the rest for a moment.

  “Wotcher Roger, mine’s a pint of black and tan – have one yourself.” I was jolted back to reality by this, acco
mpanied by a hearty slap on the back from Ferdie, who had wormed his way across to me.

  I had my seventh pint with Ferdie and we both edged up closer to the bar where the main body of the squadron seemed to have congregated. It was Cocky who, high spirited and irrepressible as ever, said “Come on boys, we’ve had this – next stop The Crown.” We picked up our caps and made for the door. “Mind the light,” someone shouted as the protective blanket was thrust aside for a moment. The air outside was cold and it hit me like a cold shower for a brief second while I gathered my wits. Chumley piled into the passenger seat. I was feeling perhaps a little too self-confident after the drinks but I felt sure I would make it somehow.

  We got on to the main road again and Chumley directed us to The Crown in Weymouth. The road was fairly free of traffic and I gave the little car full rein for a while. It was dark and just in front of me there seemed to be an even darker but obscure sort of shape which I found difficulty in identifying for a moment. “For Christ’s sake, man,” Chumley shouted. Cocky’s large Humber had pulled up on the verge and its occupants were busy relieving themselves by the roadside, but one of them was standing in front of the rear light and obscuring it. We were travelling at not much less than seventy-five m.p.h. when Chumley shouted at me and the Humber was only about thirty yards from us when I recognised it. My slow-wittedness only now became evident but I felt quite confident and in complete control of my faculties as I faced the emergency. I pulled the wheel over to the right, not abruptly but absolutely surely and with a calculated pressure to allow me only inches, inches enough to guide the left mud-guard past the Humber’s off rear bumper. At the time I was in full control and thinking how fine and assured were my reactions, how much finer they were now than they ever were when I had had no drink. The sense of complete infallibility and the consequent denial of any risk had overtaken me and the feeling, if anything, became accentuated when the little car had passed Cocky’s large Humber, which it did by the barest fraction of an inch, to the accompanying shout of “Look out, 109’s behind” from those who were standing by the verge and otherwise engaged. “No road sense, those boys,” Chumley remarked.