Читать книгу Ten Fighter Boys - Jimmy Corbin - Страница 11

“O.K. I’ve got her,” and round we would go again. These are the words that I remember the most in my whole flying career.

When I first learned to fly and tried landing a “kite,” I never seemed to be able to keep the thing on the ground. Round and round the aerodrome I would go and still I hadn’t gone solo. I would go home at night, feeling thoroughly fed-up with life. It was in peace-time, and I was learning to fly with the V.R.s.

My folks at home gave me great encouragement, and one morning just before lunch I made it——

Now began my flying career. I was a pilot flying on my own and was determined to make a good show of it – but did I ever, for a moment, imagine that I should be a fighter-pilot! I hoped I would, but didn’t picture anything so great as a Spitfire.

Then came the War! and sixteen weeks of no flying at all. I was sent to C——, where I wore out a considerable amount of shoe (boot) leather on the roads there, marching about like a bloody soldier and not as a sergeant-pilot; but in the evenings we made up for it with some very “wet” parties.

Well, to cut a long story short, there followed my E.F.T.S. course, where I finished off my Tiger Moth flying, my I.T.S. and F.T.S. courses, where I passed out with my Wings and a good flying report, and also a commission – goodness only knows why, but still there it was. On to my dream at O.T.U., where I learned to fly a Spitfire.

August 31st, 1940. After a very hectic week-end in London, I returned in a semi-fogged condition to the O.T.U. Station, and was informed I was to report to a squadron.

Nothing very much happened during the month which followed. I learned how to use my guns properly and fly in good formation.

September 29th, 1940. My birthday. I was informed at dispersal hut that I was to pack my things and after lunch leave to join “Clickerty-Click” Squadron. Little did I know that I should be leaving a place that I thought quite good fun, to join a bunch of lads that had got the right ideas about fighting, and enjoying the lighter side of life at the same time.

September 30th, 1940. I arrived at “G” aerodrome at about 10 o’clock in the morning and met everybody. I was rather impressed, because they were the only squadron to be stationed there.

The C.O. at once asked me what I was going to have to drink.

It was at this point that I got my nickname of “Durex” – a tough bull-necked fellow called “Bogle” christened me. Afterwards, we became great friends. He was an excellent pilot, and would come back to the aerodrome on many occasions with his machine riddled with bullets and nearly falling to pieces.

By this time I was fully operational, and very keen to get up and have a crack at these ME. 109’s with which they had been having fun. I should, first, mention the fellows who were in the squadron at the time – these will be all nicknames, of course. In the same flight as myself, namely “A,” there was Bogle, Butch, as well as several others, Apple and the flight-commander, Ken.

I talked quite a lot with these chaps about their methods of attack, and learned all about the more practical methods that were being used by the squadron.

October 1st. Was allowed to go up and “have a crack,” but to my dismay we did not see a thing. The weather was perfect, and we flew at about 30,000 feet most of the time.

October 2nd. As far as I can remember we took off in the morning at about 11 o’clock and climbed north to gain height. They informed us from the ground that there were quite a lot of Huns about. As we went up, I clearly remember setting my sights and turning my gun-button to “Fire.”

We had gained height and were flying south towards the coast when I saw above us some pairs of what I thought were ME. 109’s. I was flying “tail-end Charlie” at the time, and was surprised to see the squadron go into line astern as if going to the attack, and turn to starboard and downwards. I then did a very silly thing, as I learned afterwards. I left the squadron and climbed towards the nearest 109.

As I did so, I kept a keen look-out on all sides for any others that might take a pot at me. They were painted a brown colour on top and all white underneath – I noticed this as I closed in on them. As I reached about 32,000 feet, I got into range on one chap who was flying across my nose and above me. My sights were not working, but I allowed as far as I could for deflection and opened fire. My shots were a bit wide at first, but using my tracer carefully, I could bring the shots to bear on him. After two or three bursts, he suddenly half-rolled to the left and dived. I was, of course, below him, so I throttled back and did the same. As I did so, I was amazed to see that instead of continuing to dive he levelled out, presenting himself as an excellent target: I could see my incendiary bullets hitting all round the cockpit. It gave me a great thrill at the time. Then, suddenly, things began to happen to the Jerry. I couldn’t make them out at first, but when the hood flew open and I saw the pilot leave the plane with a stream of white trailing behind, I knew that I had got my first Hun – was I thrilled, or was I? I can remember shouting at the top of my voice and feeling very pleased with myself. Then, and not until then, I began to think of looking around for the rest of the chaps, and also to see if there were any other Huns about. The sky was clear, so I dived down to where I hoped I should find the wreckage of my Hun. I came through the cloud at about 2,000 feet and saw a column of smoke rising from a hillside, so I went over and investigated.

Yes, it was the wreckage of some machine or other: I hoped it was mine. Anyway, I then flew home very content and full of what I was going to tell my young brother and the folks at home.

When I got back to the mess, Bogle, who had been on leave and therefore wasn’t flying, asked me how I had got on. I wasn’t quite sure how to begin actually. I didn’t want to “shoot a hell of a line” on my first week (although that should worry me: I’m about the biggest line-shooter in the squadron now). So I said to him, “Have any of the others come back yet?” “No,” he said. “Did you see anything?” I replied, “Yes, as a matter of fact, we saw about 8 or 9 109’s.” Full of enthusiasm, he said, “Did you have a crack at ’em?” I replied again, “Yes, I did.” “Any luck?” “Well, the pilot baled-out, so I suppose it was O.K.” He laughed and slapped me on the back, and there followed drinks all round. Bogle at that period had got about five to his credit, so I looked upon him as a bit of an ace.

When the C.O. and the rest returned, he was surprised when they all told him I had got one, because they hadn’t seen any at all.

For the rest of that day we did some more patrols, but did not have any further engagements.

October 4th, 1940. It was a cloudy day and we did not carry out any large formation patrols.

By this time, I had got pretty well settled down with the boys. We used to sleep out of camp in the next village, and travelled backwards and forwards by lorry. Being the only squadron there, we were on readiness nearly every morning, which meant getting up at about 5.30 and sleeping in the mess until breakfast-time.

It was whilst we were there that quite a few cups and glasses were broken by Bogle and myself. We used to wait until one of us was unprepared and then chuck a plate across the room, at the same time shouting “Catch” at the top of our voices. The other would spin round usually too late, and to the amusement of the assembled company, the cup or what-have-you would crash to the ground. Very childish – but it gave us a good laugh. That is an interesting point, really. I noticed that with all the periods of waiting about, and long hours sometimes with nothing to do, nerves got a bit strained, and for sheer mental and physical relief one had to shout or break something – and, believe you me, it was a grand relief too. Another form of amusement was to go to the pictures in a large body and at appropriate points in the show shout something out, usually verging on the low.

We had in the mess at that time a large radiogram with quite a few records, most of them belonging to Bogle. This used to be playing nearly all day; the C.O.’s favourite was Dorothy Lamour singing “These Foolish Things.” Most chaps had their favourite tunes with hot “dames” or “broads” singing them.

The “tannoy” there was controlled from the mess, so we used to stick the mike in front of the speaker and I’m sure they could hear it down in the town.

Another amusing occupation that we performed at periods of rest and when we felt “brassed off” was the games of poker that we used to get up.

We used to stake money on anything; horses and cards were our favourites with the occasional Dog Derbys as well.

After lunch on this particular day, there was a call for two aircraft to “scramble” Maidstone 15,000 feet. So Bogle and I dashed to our machines. “F” was mine at the time. The cloud went up in layers to 15,000 feet, where it was perfectly clear. We proceeded for the next hour or so to fly from 2,000 to anything up to 15,000, and after this hour, feeling very fed up, were ordered to return to base.

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 were flying pretty long hours. On this particular morning, I can remember we were up at about 4.45, and most of us slept or dozed in the arm-chairs in the mess.

At about 06.00, we were ordered off, the whole squadron, and we were up for about an hour. We didn’t see anything though, and we were very glad to get down and have some breakfast.

Well, as it happened, we didn’t get very far with this bunfight before we were ordered off again. I had just finished my porridge when the order came through. It is rather fun to see a scramble, as it is called. Plates and knives go down with a bang; every one reaches the door at the same moment, and you filter through as best you can. “Mae West’s” are grabbed and one tears towards one’s aircraft shouting, “Start up ‘J’,” or whatever machine you’re flying. This patrol was also uneventful – we did not see any Huns.

Well, at about 10.00 hours, I sat down to my bacon and eggs, thinking to myself, “Well, that’s that for a bit. I guess I can enjoy my spot of eats,” but, oh no! After I had finished my second course the phone rang and up we had to go again. I tried to force some hot tea down, but the C.O. wouldn’t let me, so you can see how quickly we used to get out to our aeroplanes. Actually from the time we left the table to the time all the 12 aircraft left the ground wasn’t more than three to four minutes.

On this trip we were stooging around for about an hour and a half, but although there were plenty of Jerry’s about, we didn’t see any.

Down we came again, and this time got a lounge in the chairs in the mess. At about 11 o’clock cocoa was brought round and we all had a tuck-in. At about 11.30 we were ordered off again.

This time up we went to 30 thou’ and stooged about a bit up there. After we had been up for about 30 minutes, I spotted lots of pairs of what looked like ME. 109’s flying harmlessly above us.

After a time the squadron seemed to be going down. I tried to call them up and tell them about these chaps above us, but no – I think my R/T must have failed, and up I went on my own. I had been flying above the squadron, as usual.

As I climbed up after a pair that were going north, I suddenly spotted a yellow nose on my immediate starboard, so that I was to him a full deflection target. I thought to myself, “Oh, I don’t think he’ll get me,” so I pulled into a steeper climbing turn just in case – but it was too late!

The next thing that happened was the horrid thump as the bullets and cannon shells hit my aircraft. At the same moment, I felt a terrific bang on my side and right arm, coupled with that acrid stench of cordite which always seems to follow when one is hit. I half rolled to the right and dived for the ground, going down in ever-decreasing circles. I then straightened out and took stock of my surroundings and damage. I checked my wheels and flap – this time I had no wheel pressure, but the flaps were O.K. My engine temperatures were also all right. Oil temp. about 75 to 80, pressure 90 lbs., but looking out to my starboard I could see that a cannon shell had caught my aileron very nicely and it was in shreds, with lumps of canvas streaming off it.

I tested my control – everything seemed O.K. The last time my machine had been holed with bullets from stern to stem. There were shots into the metal prop. too, and several control wires had been cut. This time my control column was well over to the right and the machine was flying straight and level. I tested the lateral control fairly accurately because I thought, “I’ll save as much of this machine as I can, because I can land it on its belly, and the engine will be O.K. anyway.”

My side began to hurt like hell at that time. I thought that I was really hurt this time and began to think to myself, “This bloody war isn’t quite so funny as I thought it was.” I spotted an aerodrome which is just out of Maidstone, and made for that. Why I didn’t get home I don’t know, but my only thought at that time was to “plonk” it down at the nearest aerodrome I could find.

So, preparing for a landing 20,000 feet below, I started to glide down. As I reached about 2,000 feet I began to get worried about my aileron. It wasn’t till I had got all that way and realised that if anything had happened near the ground it would have been the end – or, as we say, “I should have had it.”

Everything went off to plan. I didn’t bother to circle the aerodrome, but tried my wheels – nothing happened, so I then put my flaps down and tightened my straps ready for the shock as the machine hit the ground.

As I went over the hedge, I caught a glimpse of upturned faces – they were watching me coming in without wheels. I did a normal landing and braced myself for the bump; the machine slid about twenty yards and then came to a standstill – there was rather an unpleasant smell as the engine, now fairly hot, burned the oil around the cylinder block. I sat there for a moment, and then, switching everything off and checking all my switches, climbed out.

My side began to ache like hell about this time, and my arm ached so that I couldn’t hold anything with it.

As the ambulance came on the scene I checked that my parachute and helmet were being looked after properly, but the M.O. hurried me into the ambulance and said, “That’s O.K., don’t worry – we’ll send them on to your unit,” which, incidentally, they did, much to my gratitude, as I found out when I returned to base.

I was taken down to the sick quarters, where they tended my wounds. As I went there in the ambulance, I tried to think how badly I had been hurt. When I got there they took my shirt off and all that had happened was that I had got about four pieces of cannon shell in my side. Very small and doing very little damage. Why I felt so bad was because they had penetrated the muscles and bruised me and made my side ache more than if I had actually been hit really well.

Well, I felt a bit of an idiot, and was carted off to a very nice country house that had been turned into a hospital.

I was in hospital for about a week and had quite a pleasant but well-needed rest. When I got back, the C.O. said he was very pleased to see me back again and that I should have a few days off, and as we were stationed near my home, I could have four days, if I wished. I took ’em, and had quite a nice time. Mind you, I was able to “shoot a pretty good line,” it being the second time I was shot down.

October 16th, 1940. Returned to the squadron after my leave and discovered the facts that I have just narrated. For the days following we didn’t have any luck at all. At this time I was very eager to have another scrap and see how I felt. Having been shot down twice fairly close on one another, I began to wonder how the next packet would arrive.

October 17th, 1940. New C.O. took over.

October 25th, 1940. My tense feeling was very much relieved when on this day we sighted two formations of 109’s.

It was a cloudy day, low down, but above 5,000 feet it was as clear as a bell. We climbed up to 30,000 feet and sighted a small formation of ME.s about 2,000 feet below us and coming in from the coast. We went into line astern and attacked. I followed my leader down and then thought I saw an ME. ahead of me, but on reaching 15,000 feet I realised it was only a Spitfire.

I was very annoyed at losing all that well-needed height without seeing anything and immediately looked around for some of the boys. I could only find one, so I joined up with him and signalled him to commence to climb when I spotted some smoke trails above us; these I thought or hoped were our boys and climbed towards them, taking care to approach from the rear in case they were hostile.

At about 28,000 feet I could recognise them as Spitfires, and continued to join up with them. Meanwhile the other chap, a sergeant, “bogged off” some place – I didn’t see him again that trip.

As I joined up, I couldn’t see any vacant places, so I called up the C.O. and said I would like to take up position as “weaver.”

We were then turning north, and I reckoned that it wouldn’t be long before they would tell us to land again, and was beginning to get rather disheartened when they told us there were some “Snappers” in our immediate vicinity.

Suddenly we saw them; they were steering in groups of four, line-astern, their yellow noses shining in the sun.

Every one seemed to split up and attack something. I found myself above and looked around well, left and right, and in my mirror to make sure nobody was on my tail.

Then I spotted four 109’s approaching me from the starboard quarter. I thought to myself, “I don’t want that lot shooting at me with cannons, etc.,” so I pulled away to one side and climbed a bit. I let them file past and then turned on the tail of the last bloke. (I missed a very good chance of getting more than one on that trip. I should have turned sooner than I did and held a long burst so that all four should pass through it.) Anyway, I put in a short sharp full deflection shot on the last Jerry but didn’t have time to see any results. He dived off from the others, going almost straight down and not rolling over to the left or right. I followed, and gave short bursts as I went. The speed was gradually increasing so I hadn’t much chance of drawing any closer. I fired burst after burst, but still nothing happened. At last he pushed his nose down even farther and started to wobble a bit, finally disappearing into cloud with a stream of white smoke pouring from the starboard side of the engine.