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
