Читать книгу Ten Fighter Boys - Jimmy Corbin - Страница 9

THE curtain goes up at the end of May when “Peacekrieg” became “Blitzkrieg” with a vengeance. Apart from two “shows” at the time of Rotterdam’s fall, the squadron had seen practically no action. Following these “do’s” we made two moves in quick succession, remaining at one aerodrome for little over a week. Having barely landed and refuelled after our last shift, one of the flight-commanders went about rounding up the majority of sergeant-pilots, telling them in hushed tones that we were going places, and advising us to get small kit packed up in ten minutes, ready to fly again. During that ten minutes we rushed to our quarters in the mess, some of us grumbling about the lack of warning and all the messing around we’d suffered during the past fortnight. A plaintive murmur in colonial English from “Digger” – “I shan’t be able to write to me wife” – and we all burst out laughing, since every day regularly, this newly-wed had told his Doris of his love and other sweet nothings. After delving into kit which had just arrived, and swearing “not by Kolynos,” I managed to sort out the necessary. It’s funny, but when you are told of an impending offensive action, you all get so keyed-up with the future trip as the predominant subject of your grey matter, even to the extent of becoming forgetful about the ordinary things of life. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to see someone who is turfed out of bed for a sweep at short notice, clamber into his aircraft in pyjamas, having forgotten all about the minor detail of a pair of slacks.

So a quarter of an hour later saw 14 Spitfires take the air with the occupants loaded-up to the eyebrows and resembling the proverbial Xmas tree. Myself, in the restricted space to spare, had crammed a respirator, shaving tackle and all necessities for “bed and board.” If feelings were any criterion I emulated the prince of poultry and felt completely stuffed.

Only one or two pilots besides our C.O. knew the destination, and I’m afraid my formation flying left quite a lot to be desired, as I tried to keep position on my leader with one eye whilst trying to survey the ground below with the other. We were going west, that was certain; then after 40 minutes or so a very large town with balloons easily seen against the sun. Ah, Birmingham, I thought – but what were we doing passing the Midlands like this – were we en route for Ireland? Had the Führer sprung another surprise? Eventually after much speculation (all wrong) we touched down on the runways on a Home Counties aerodrome – “K.” We quickly refuelled and pushed on to another one – “G,” some 10 minutes distant. During the brief spell at “K,” I looked it over with what might be called a “pilot’s eye.” That is, trees and stately buildings which appear as beautifiers, read through a pilot’s eyes as a nuisance and the possible cause of a crash on landing. I well remember Paddy saying what a sod it would be for night-flying here. And those balloons! God, the chaps here must be good, flying day in and day out so close to these pilots’ dreads.

At “G” I saw more Spitfires than I had hitherto imagined possible to park on one field. Truly Britain’s might in the skies, little dreaming of the future hades to come. After a “confab,” it was passed around that we were to sweep the Dunkirk area as a protection for the evacuation. Our squadron were chosen to be top dogs above three others, and had to be content to waffle along at about 26,000 feet. “Oh Christ,” was said a dozen times if it was said once. I myself was one offender when the valve on the oxygen bottle would only turn with the greatest of difficulty. These things normally don’t worry me much, but the tense state of mind led to far less patience with the things which weren’t “just so.”

At last with a thunderous roar we all took off and sorted out our respective positions. I saw nothing of the other three squadrons after we approached the English coast, being busy keeping station and sharp look-out. In fact to be precise, I saw nothing of anything the whole trip. A completely uneventful trip apart from a bloody chilly feeling where my feet ought to have been. After a slight miscalculation by the C.O. we pancaked back on the runways at “K.” The squadron-leader had had us quite perturbed for a quarter of an hour, during which time we looked over the side to see only sea, and plenty of it, and a low fuel-gauge reading didn’t exactly promote a contented frame of mind. It was damn funny really, on reflection, to see the whole squadron open out on crossing the English coast, in failing light and poor visibility, every one trying to be the first in establishing our position and sighting our base. The trip cost us one aeroplane when the undercart failed to come down on one chap’s “kyte,” resulting in a sensational tearing noise as terra firma grabbed at his fuselage. There was one other “ring-twitch” effort when a sergeant-pilot, “Jock,” landed across the runway and looked all the way as though he had an urgent date with a scrap heap. Anyway, hard application of brakes to the tune of sergeant-major’s rhetoric averted another calamity.

That night we were very thankful to two W.A.A.F. N.C.O.s who, although they weren’t cooks (at least according to R.A.F. documents), turned out a lovely set of cooked suppers for the sergeant-pilots, an event which I shan’t forget quickly.

The next morning we had an early “stand-to” period, when another invasion rumour seemed to grip every one, then after breakfast we shoved-off to our marshalling base at “G” again. Here was a repetition of yesterday’s landscape except that another squadron had tootled in to swell the band of happy pilgrims.

We did two sweeps over Dunkirk that day, at least the squadron did, as I had to stand down on the first one to let our spare men have a crack. These two sweeps were replicas of the first with yours-truly doing “tail-end Charlie” at 25,000 feet or over, not seeing anything, and learning afterwards that one or two of the lower boys had a few sharp tussles. I suppose, though, we served our purpose in protecting the mob from attack from above. Most of the officers and sergeants saw no reason why on the next trip we shouldn’t be one of the lower squadrons and let someone else have a go at the synthetic ozone. At least, I thought the lower temperature would make us more comfortable. We all had a moan to the C.A. about it, and he in turn was in full agreement.

That evening we returned to our parent station at “D,” much to every one’s delight, for it was here that the squadron was born and brought up, right to the time of opening this narrative. They didn’t expect us, but we managed to find some beds belonging to blokes on leave. No doubt profanity filled the air when our cheeky apologies for the use of their comforts were conveyed to them.

No peace for the wicked. 6 a.m. next morning saw us awake and numbers in the air within a quarter of an hour, still rubbing tired eyes and yawning too. The “kytes” had been worked on all through the night by a small bloody keen bunch of grease monkeys. And all the technical hitches had been unknotted.

This time it was an entirely different aerodrome, at “M,” that we used for a forward base, but the scenery when we’d landed was entirely the same as the view from the tarmac at “G.” Aeroplanes to the right of me, aeroplanes to the left of me, aeroplanes in front, in fact, aeroplanes. It was quite comforting to see this local display of might, and we all had a feeling of confident optimism that, whatever happened, the sparks would certainly fly, given half a chance. I (and the others) had been here before and knew the general layout, but it didn’t matter since we didn’t get the chance to stray any distance from our machines.

A cup of tea was available, at this unearthly hour, from a N.A.A.F.I. van. The time of day, coupled with the fact that the beverage was gratis, caused us much speculation as to the coming trip.

The various C.O.’s of the participating squadrons had visited the Ops. Room, where the general scheme was outlined to them and they, in their turn, made arrangements for mutual safety and efficiency. Once more, so we were told, we were to be “stooge” squadron of the group, which would be stepped-up, squadron at a time, at intervals of about 4,000 feet. We estimated that taking-off as quickly as was safe we would all be in the correct position when we crossed the coast S.E. There was no need for the squadron-leader to say, “Have you all got that?” since we’d now had two days’ practice at being “good Samaritans,” besides which it’s remarkable the interest in the finer points one takes when life might be suddenly terminated.

The morning was fresh with haze up to about 4,000 feet and between that and 6,000 feet there were some patchy bits of cloud. In fact, a typical summer’s morning, that foretold a brilliant day of sunshine, which indeed it turned out to be. Getting away was done surprisingly quick considering our machines were mixed amongst the mob generally. A little “pedalling” on the rudder-bar, plenty of hard pressure on the brake-lever and we had taxied clear of the other parked aircraft, amidst a cloud of dust, since this particular station was noted for its dry soil qualities.

We took off in “vic’s” of three aircraft. Jock was No. 2 on the right, with myself on the left as No.3 of our section, which was led by a daring but experienced flying-officer. We were termed “Yellow” section, and brought up the rear of the four sections which comprised the squadron. The others being Blue, leading, followed by Green and Red sections.

Very quickly we took up our positions, and when Blue Leader, the C.O., called up over the “R/T,” “Are you in position Green, Red and Yellow leaders?” all were able to reply in the affirmative. As we climbed up, circling the aerodrome, we were given a precautionary warning to use the weak mixture to conserve our fuel, and also be sparing with oxygen. Meanwhile the other squadrons were following in our wake, having taken-off behind us.

The intention was to cross the English coast at 7 a.m., all stationed correctly at our prearranged heights – 27,000 feet for us. By this time the squadron-leader had earned the title of “Oxygen Charlie,” owing to our close proximity to the celestial bodies on each of these shows. The actual sweep over French soil was to last an hour, since our fuel supply wouldn’t leave us a good fighting margin if this period were exceeded.

Whilst we were gaining height, every one settled down, and I found myself doing the routine things such as trimming the aircraft to fly nicely to the hand, adjusting the seat and straps for safety and comfort, setting the gunsights, and switching on the necessary heaters which neutralise the cold at high altitude, so preventing freezingup of the instruments. I found myself very apprehensive. Would we meet anything this time? I wondered if the Jerries are as crafty as they say in using the sun and extra height. Anyhow I’d much rather be up here than one of those poor blighters on the beach at Dunkirk. I visualised the morning papers of the past few days, each prominently displaying a map of the battle area, the same area to which we were heading, and each showing a complete encirclement of the Dunkirk locality by German armoured divisions. Why had we been trapped like it – were the German chiefs too clever, or was it muddling; if the latter, WHY?

In much the same way as in a dream my mind seemed to flit from thought to thought, sometimes with no fixed relationship, and constantly running through the advice of more experienced pilots: If they get on your tail – go into a steep turn and make it steep – try to climb and gain height – you’ll beat ’em. And so it went on.

After about 20 minutes the dial registering the oxygen content in its cylinder showed an abnormally large drop, compared with what I had usually experienced. The supply gauge, on the other hand, showed itself to be perfectly normal, so I immediately knew that there must be a leak somewhere in the pipe-line or system, and it was odds on that the oxygen would run out on me. However, not wanting to be out of it, I elected to carry on until it really did get empty, and proceeded to use a supply equivalent to a height of 5,000 feet below that at which we were flying, in an attempt to economise. It gave me a slight headache for a short while, but an occasional burst of the correct amount seemed to overcome that.

We crossed the coast outward bound only a minute or so behind schedule and were now flying in fairly open formation with us “Yellow” boys behind, and a bit above the rest of the squadron. Thus Yellow section could act as lookouts for the squadron against attacks from above.

I saw nothing of the other squadrons or any other aircraft as we swept over the Channel and carried out our patrol, and I was watching the oxygen very carefully. After about fifty minutes of the patrol it was down on the red danger mark, indicating that it was almost empty. Without oxygen at 27,000 feet I would pass out in very short time, so I was about to call up my C.O. for permission to return home, when another high-pitched, excited voice smote my ears before I could speak: “Hallo, Blue Leader, Red Leader calling, I can see something going on below, am going down to investigate” – a short pause then a reply – “O.K. Red Leader, Yellow section follow and guard their tails.” That meant us, and it was the answer to my oxygen troubles since I could manage without any if I went low enough.

“Here it is,” I thought. “Hell! Yellow one’s putting on the horses.” By this time, however, we had lost sight of Reds as they had a slight lead, and their camouflage soon merged into the terrain below. However, we dived like “ding-bats,” making it almost impossible to keep formation decently. Jock and I were quite wide from our leader as we tore through some patchy cloud at 15,000 feet using both hands on the stick. This cloud proved a bloody nuisance, as our ice-cold windscreens misted up with frozen water vapour on the inside, and I could see 3/5 of “Fanny Adams.”

At about 12,000 feet we saw several batches of bombers – HE. 111 and JU. 88’s – sweeping around the area in threes and fives. Yellow 1 yelled out, “Prepare for No. 3 attack,” one which we had practised so often and hadn’t been put to the test. Next, “Line astern – GO!” came over the radio, as we weaved round into position to attack 5 JU. 88’s who appeared oblivious of our presence. Next came the precautionary order, “Echelon port – GO!” just as I noticed a lot of ack-ack popping up 330 yards behind the enemy. The French were going great guns but not hitting anything. Perhaps they thought we were enemy fighters – perhaps. Why is it, I ruminated, that the anti-aircraft gun is designed to shoot where the bombers have been and not where they are. Surely a good intelligent chap could give them just an extra bit of elevation and range, merely by looking at the results. But then I’m only a lay mind and it’s no doubt much more difficult really.

Anyway, ignoring the “muck,” we forged our way up astern of the 88’s and pumped lead into them on a grand scale. In order to see my target I had to continually rub my windscreens with my gauntlet as the forward view was completely obscured by water which had frozen. I rubbed clear a small patch sufficient to see through, but I had to keep rubbing as the frost formed up as quickly as I removed it. It’s a sod holding the “stick” in one hand and rubbing away with the other. If I don’t look out I’ll misjudge my distance and ram that ugly load of hate in front. And yet I don’t seem to be overtaking him very fast. Quite nice in fact, a tribute to the leading of Yellow 1. It’s grand to sit there and hear a noise like taut canvas ripping as the eight guns send out flashing white streaks towards their objective. The machine I myself selected and attacked, as far as I could see, had jets of flame and black smoke trailing back from its engines, and was certainly badly damaged. Our leader broke off the attack sideways and downwards in the approved fashion, with No. 2 and myself following in close attendance, then climbed up again to position himself for a further attack. I wondered what was being said and done in the bomber meanwhile.

It was whilst I was trailing Nos. 1 and 2 in this climb that I spotted a silver Messerschmitt 109 single-engine fighter circling into position to have a crack at me from the rear. Giving the others a yell over the “R/T,” accompanied by a display of blue lights from my posterior (which would have been the envy of Mr. Brock), I wheeled away into a supertight left-hand turn which appeared too much for him since he sheered off at plus boost; I presume to try and surprise another stooge.

I had only just rid myself of this pest when huge white plumes of smoke began streaming back past the hood from the direction of the engine exhaust. I immediately concluded that the French had hit something at last, or possibly a JU. 88 had scored a “double top” on my engine with their return fire. A quick glance at the instruments assured me that the engine was as rough as it felt, with the radiator temp. well around the “clock” on its second trip, together with a negligible oil pressure. When black smoke and oil fumes suddenly enveloped me from the direction of my feet blotting out everything and almost suffocating me, I realised that I shouldn’t see my base, or even the white cliffs of England, that day again.

After a struggle I slipped the hood back against the vacuum effect of the slip stream. This action served to drive all the smoke and filth back to the bottom of the cockpit, and cleared my head a bit. I switched off the engine to decrease the risk of fire and a petrol-tank explosion, then, assuming a nice gliding speed and performing a series of turns, I surveyed the earth below for a suitable landing-ground. The beach first sprang to mind, but this was out definitely as every few yards was littered with wrecked aircraft and boats. The sea I didn’t relish as I thought the chances of rescue would be remote and since there seemed practically no sea-borne craft in the vicinity. French fields looked uncommonly small and dangerous from 6-7,000 feet, so the only alternative was baling out.

Not wishing to be on the end of a “brolly” for any length of time in case I became a nice juicy bit of 109 meat, I chose to glide to a safe minimum height before “walking out.” It was funny not to see myself “panic” as I always imagined would happen in a crisis. I now look back and think, “Well, who would have thought it.” I suppose the fact that such possibilities as the state I was now in had been discussed so much, and that with certain routines in emergency it took away a hell of a lot of the cause for fear. I had just removed my helmet and released my safety harness when, as luck would have it, I caught sight of something which looked far more like another silver 109 than a liver spot. He regarded me as easy prey, no doubt, and began to approach my tail from above to port. Without engine there was only one thing I could do. A sharp diving turn brought me straight into the huge pall of black smoke which stretched up to nearly 5,000 feet from the blazing oil tanks in the Dunkirk docks area. When I emerged into sunshine again on the other side of the smoke, my friend the 109 had disappeared. He probably thought I was a “goner” and left it at that, thank God!

When I was about 2,000 feet, and with the airspeed at 180 m.p.h., I started to abandon aircraft in the manner so often discussed and recommended in the pilots’ room. The idea was to turn the aircraft on to its back, then drop out, pulling the “ring” at one’s own convenience. The thing which hadn’t been stressed, but which proved the most important, was that the “harness” should remain fastened until the last moment, when, on extracting the release-pin, gravity (according to the venerable Mr. Newton) should assist exit.

As I’ve already explained, the harness which should have been tight was already off. As a result, in attempting to invert the machine, yours truly found himself threequarters of the way over and unable to go either way. A very chaotic state of mind prevailed. However, a fortunate lapse of memory excludes the hectic happening of the next few seconds. A vague remembrance of having two attempts to push myself out, and the next I knew was that I wouldn’t have to take the chute back as a “dud” after all. Mentally the parachute packer was awarded about 15 V.C.s and a brace of life-saving certificates.

The fun wasn’t over yet though. Oh no! There were still French military below and they gave me the benefit of a sneaking burst of machine-gun fire. Fortunately, like their “heavy stuff,” this was just as accurate. It didn’t hit the “brolly” even. I learned later that a solo occupant leaving a British fighter was regarded as a parachutist (German version). This impression apparently still existed when I hit terra firma between two tin huts in a village factory at Fermini. For no sooner had I released my chute when I was set upon by a group of chattering niggers, Moroccan employees, I believe. About four grabbed me and another three saw to it that my gun didn’t leave its holster. I was vainly protesting my innocence and nationality when, lo and behold! one of these dark-skinned individuals was creeping up behind the party feeling furtively in the folds of his overalls. It wasn’t a bad life while it lasted, I reflected, and was about to make a last despairing effort when up dashed a “poilu” whom I afterwards regarded as the spirit of common sense. He took command, and with the retinue of “wog” workers I was escorted back to his unit’s headquarters – a commandeered house. Here I established my identity with a mixture of broken French and gesticulations, also earning the complete confidence and approval of our dusky thugs. I learned that their religion demands decapitation as the only indication of death. We do see life.

At the H.Q. officers’ dug-out, amidst all the pandemonium of dive-bombing and shelling, a couple of Jersey boys proved good pals as well as interpreters. They asked for news of the war and the day of the week, since the hurried retreat had meant the loss of all sense of time and place. I supplied what information I could without disclosing that I thought they hadn’t much chance of getting out of the offensive circle put up by the Germans.

They in turn told me that they were moving into Dunkirk that afternoon and would take me with them. I was anxious to get cracking but had to wait meanwhile, getting my first meal of the day in the form of horse-flesh and unsettled French wine.

Well, in due course one of the Jersey chaps took me to the French H.Q. in Dunkirk in an Austin 8 which they had retrieved from the ditch.

Chaos ruled everywhere. Hundreds of vehicles of war graced both sides of the road, where they had been abandoned as a hindrance by previous owners and drivers. Cattle and a few horses stampeded about the field, littered with decaying bodies of their contemporaries who had been hit by shrapnel or blast. Here and there one saw a car ditched, riddled with bullet holes, and now and again a body of a refugee who had been “caught-up with.” A sordid journey from start to finish, and considering my movements the previous 24 hours it all seemed a dream.

After further questioning at the French G.H.Q. I was conveyed to the British G.H.Q. at a site nearer the docks. Here were heavy guns of the dock’s defence belching forth, more often than not, premature explosions. Ruin and desolation faced me at every turn, but negotiating wrecked buildings I was eventually deposited amongst a most comforting sight, the first British people I had seen that day. At the G.H.Q., to my surprise, I met none other than Jock who had also been shot down and wounded slightly too. That I should meet a fellow pilot was no end of a tonic. We alternately sat and lay flat in a semi-underground shelter for the next few hours, until we were told to make our way to the mole under our own steam. This was a painfully slow business for Jock, and we had to shelter two or three times under vehicles whilst the mole was subjected to continuous shelling and dive-bombing. On one side of the road were blazing railway trucks, goods yards, and shipyards, whilst away on the right was the huge cloud of black smoke rising from the oil tanks in the distance on the other side of the mole.

Once after sheltering in a “casualty station,” we looked out to find a lorry which had sheltered us two minutes before now a mass of twisted wreckage spread over an area five times its normal size. All in the day’s work to the Army boys, but a sensational “birthday” for us.

Eventually the docks were reached and we were greeted by a very cheery bunch of Tars, who seemed to have established permanent residence amongst a pile of sandbags. Another revolting sight was unfolded when some French soldiers began shooting all the stray dogs, insisting they were message-carriers. They did it in the painful way, with about four shots, afterwards dropping the tormented things into the water. I suspected that more than one of the Tommies would willingly have set to on the French had it not been for the futility of it all in the circumstances.

At about 8.30, after about 12 hours or more on French soil, Admiral W——W——instructed Jock and myself to jump aboard a launch which had moored alongside some 50 yards farther down the quay. Not being master mariners and with Jock wounded, the game of descending 30 feet or so to water-level proved quite a problem, but once aboard, the Senior Service made us extremely comfortable. We went to sleep in luxurious bunks (for a weapon of war). An hour later we were awakened and transferred to a destroyer which with two more of its kind had come alongside to take off what was the rear party of the British evacuation. Even the G.H.Q. was finishing, and after that night Dunkirk would be totally French. So 12 hours later would have even more seriously curtailed our chances of rescue had we baled-out the next day.

The five-hour journey to Dover wasn’t entirely without incident. Twice the ship’s guns blazed at an aircraft, probably laying mines in our path, besides which some curious chap on the deck above had tried the trigger of his rifle, with rather disastrous results for a second-lieutenant who sat in the chair of the mess-room below, which the officers and wounded were sharing. I myself had given up the chair only a bare fifteen minutes earlier. Another of those miracles of fate which in these troubled times seem an everyday occurrence.

2 a.m. saw us back on English soil and given every help by a bunch of hard-working civilians and service folk.

Some sandwiches, tea and then to the Lord W. Hotel, where we communicated the news of our return from the dead to a very sleepy controller at our parent base. After that in brilliant moonlight we made our way to a rest centre for a few hours’ sleep after a day crammed full of excitement and suspense. Truly a “Channel packet.”