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 freezing up 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
