Memoirs of WWII - The True Stories of a Canadian Fighter Pilot

Some called it a rest

2010-11-19T10:30:00.032-05:00

Some called it a rest – After a regulated deal of hours and/or sorties, depending upon the theatre of fighting, a fighter pilot had to stand down. This usually meant that he had to instruct at an operational training unit for several months. So, I was sent to No. 57 Operational Training Unit (OTU) at Hawarden in North Wales.

(At about the same time as I left, 610 moved north to rebuild. After about a month at Hawarden, I flew over to visit “B” Flight. I was very disappointed as the complement had changed completely. I never went back.)

This was the complement of Squadrons 610 and 616 at Westhampnett in the spring of 1941. The complement of experienced pilots decreased rapidly during the next few months.

Back row, left to right – Bill Wright(1), Laurie Philpotts(2), Dixie Davis(3), Bob Bowen(4), Joe Doley(5), Richie Richardson(6), Pete Wright(8), Bill McWatt(9), Happy Merriman(11), Bill Raine(13).

Middle row, seated, left to right – Stoopie Stoop(4), Tony Graze(5), Bill Ballard(7), George Mains(9).

Front row, seated, left to right – Crowley Milling(1), Francis-Knight(2), Squadron Leader Holden(3), Wing Commander Bader(4), Group Captain Woodall(5), Squadron Leader Cunningham(6).

Clipping from the London Daily Mirror referring to Happy Merriman in one of the skirmishes on the day that he shot down a total of five ME- 109’s. As I recall, Hap wouldn’t read the resume because he said that it would be bad luck. He must have read it when we weren’t looking though, because he went-for-a-burton not long after.

Clipping from the London Daily Mirror showing Bart Bartholomew on the bridge of a destroyer. As fighter aircraft patrolled the ship convoys through the Straight of Dover, somebody suggested that fighter pilots should, upon occasion, sail in the surface escort vessels in order to appreciate the lot of the Navy during the run through the Strait. Ronnie Scoot and I were to have our turn, but we missed the bloody destroyer at Portsmouth. Nevertheless, we had a great holiday at Portsmouth and Environs. We borrowed a copy of a report, re the co-operation trip, from a friend who had already made the trip, and who had reported on such, and we formatted our report from our friend’s.

The Padre & Recreation

2010-11-17T10:30:00.001-05:00

The Padre – The first time, and the last, that I had anything to do with a military padre was before the military got smart and put the right words into padres’ mouths. A young padre of the Tangmere Wing came to visit “B” Flight just before we were about to go on a sweep over France. Each of us in the Flight had the usual difficult-to-spit mouth; dry as a bone. The very first words that the young padre volunteered were, “Now, it is a probability that one or more of you may not be returning this afternoon…” and before he could get another word out, he was on his way out the screen door of the hut without a foot on the floor. (Can you imagine, uh?)

On many an operational flight, I made opportunity to bypass the padre and go straight to the top with what may be described as a quick religion.

Recreation – Occasionally, the Squadron or the Flight had a stand-down, or put on a thirty minute readiness, or a fifteen minute readiness. There were two haunts which we frequented when this happened. One was the White Swan near the perimeter of the field, and the other was the Unicorn which was situated on the aerodrome side of Chichester.

Our favourite was the White Swan. The little pub was owned and operated by an old couple. One morning when Squadrons 145 and 616 were breaking formation, one pilot from 145 and another from 616 broke and collided right over the White Swan. One of them went down in a flat spin into the ground near the White Swan. The old couple dragged the pilot from the remains of the kite but the pilot was, probably, dead. We were very proud of our pub, but how callous we young punks were as we never knew the names of the dear old, mothering folks even though they were recommended for bravery to boot.

On most Wednesdays and weekends, the Unicorn held dances in a small ballroom which was part of the pub. The first time that I attended a dance there, the room was warm and smoky. The girl with whom I was dancing had two handkerchiefs tucked into the cavern of her breast area. The temperature after more dancing was, now, very warm, and as she fumbled down amidst her breasts for one of the handkerchiefs, she said, out of the blue, “Huh, I had two of them when I came in.” Well, the statement caught my mental, Canadian funny bone and I, ungallantly, guffawed.

2 – 2 = 0

2010-11-15T10:30:00.000-05:00

2 – 2 = 0 – The RAF fighter Command made no money with me as a fighter pilot as the fabulous score of two ME 109’s which I shot down was equated to my being shot down upon two occasions, and both times the kites were written off.

The first ME 109 which I shot down (July 8, 1941, and confirmed by Billie Raine) was in a beehive over the Lille area of France. I spent too much time on the guy’s tail before I got the sights of my kite out in front of him and I was lucky that I was not clobbered myself and I remember that I gave him about a two second burst of the small bore. The 109 was afire and the pilot bailed out. In this particular melee we lost two pilots.

The second 109 which I clobbered (August 21 and confirmed by Georgie and Dixie) was over the Chotques area. I managed to get underneath him when he was in a light turn and then I raked him with a belly-burst. The 109 went straight up, then spun down belching smoke and, as far as I could follow, the pilot didn’t get out. George and Dix said that the pilot’s head was slumped to the side. We lost four pilots that morning.

Although I had had bullet and shell holes in my aircraft on more occasions than I would care to relate, the first time that I was really clobbered and shot down was when the Squadron was top cover for a flight of four-engine Stirling bombers on their way to bomb the chemical works at Lille (July 19, 1941). We were jumped by ME 109’s and they stayed around to fight. Usually they came down with initial airspeed for an attack, took their cracks in a few seconds and then buggered off on down. I pulled the cardinal sin of staying too long on a 109’s tail and just when I was getting my sights out in front of him – WHAM – I caught a packet. Immediately I was undoing things to get out of the cockpit, as I quickly decided that I was going to have control troubles and I didn’t want to be a sitting duck. But there was no smoke and the aircraft dove in a descending arc. Something ran through my brain, “Philpotts, take it easy.” As far as I could see, I was, now, all by myself in the sky and I settled back into the cockpit. A quick check showed that the starboard aileron was hanging by an outer tip and my Spit kept in a continuous bank to the starboard side. I managed, however, to get the kite straightened out by forcing my forearm between the pip¬squeak (an auto-matic transmitter on the starboard side of the cockpit) and the control column, and I gingerly applied full left trim to the rudder. There were many pinholes made by tiny fragments of shrapnel in the starboard side of the cockpit and, as I found out later, in me. I recall a very quick, hot, pricky burn at the time. The engine was about to stop, evidently, because of holes in the glycol and oil rads. I tried to glide the Spit at about 145 mph indicated airspeed, as this was supposed to be near the efficient distance-speed ratio for a gliding a Spitfire, and I wanted to go as far as I could across the Channel. Indeed, I wanted to return my Spitfire to England. As I was about to cross the French coastline, two 109’s dove on me and I released my numb forearm from between the pipsqueak and the control column and I let the kite go into a mean starboard turn at the opportune second. The 109’s broke on down and I never saw them again. Had these greenhorns come up underneath me they would have seen that I was a lame duck. I was able to cross the English coast in the Bexhill area at a height of about 150 feet over the beach. But as I lowered the gliding speed to attempt a forced landing in a pasture field dead ahead, I couldn’t hold the kite from going into a steep banking turn and the field which I originally picked was, now, out of the question. The starboard wingtip hit the ground and the empennage broke off (as I found out later on). The remainder of the kite, with me in it, jumped a ten foot ditch and we finished up writing off a couple of cows.

The complete underside of the starboard mainplane was shot away and the four machine guns were hanging (as related by the Calgary Highlanders who were working on the beach when I crossed over). A dispatch rider of the Highlanders managed to get to the site, tied my hands around his neck, and took me on the pinion of his motorbike to the nearest medical help. (I was never able to remember getting out of the cockpit and onto the pinion seat.) The medical aid came at the home of an old retired doctor and his wife. The dispatch rider and the doctor’s wife laid me out on, of all things, a beautiful, old fashioned couch in the living room. Later on I ate a fresh egg, other than powdered egg, for the first time in over a year, and, believe it or not, I was given a piece of chocolate cake, freshly home baked; I was in heaven. The dispatch rider said that a lady on the farm had seen me get out of the crashed kite and she was calling for help. She, evidently, kept asking me how I was but she kept backing away from me because my face was a mass of blood which flowed from cuts on my head (probably after hitting my head on the gun-sight). The Sutton harness was tightened down rigidly before I crashed and it was amazing to me how my body compacted to the degree that my head and upper torso could be forced so far forward in the tightened harness; this, probably, explained the muscle damage to my back.

When I was taken back to our little hospital, the salvage officer came to see me as he wanted to see a living ghost. (Some friend, eh?) He said that if I hadn’t been killed by the shells and shrapnel, I should have been killed by the crash. And if I hadn’t been killed by the crash, I should have been burned to death, but the Spit did not burn. It was the last statement in which he had interest. He wanted to know if I remembered anything that I did specifi¬cally that might have had bearing on keeping the aircraft from burning. I told him that I had run the petrol dry from the tanks to the engine and had switched off the mags on the descending glide and that the engine was stone cold. But I believed that I was extremely lucky that the self-sealing petrol tanks, someway or other, stayed whole through the entire fiasco.

A second episode of being shot down occurred as I was leading Bart Bartholomew back towards Westhampnett after we had escorted an air-sea rescue Lysander aircraft which had dropped emergency materials to a fighter pilot in the drink a few miles off Dungeness. We were stooging along inside the coast with complete confidence of safety when we were taken by surprise by two ME 109’s. They made their attack with much initial airspeed and then they kept on going. One of them got the glycol rad on my aeroplane, among other damage. With the encouragement of Bart circling overhead, I managed to pancake into a relatively large sized field a number of miles west. At the end of the skid of the belly landing, flames were licking at the bottom of the cockpit and my left trouser leg started to burn. In trying to beat this out, my gauntlets were set afire. (The pure silk gloves which I wore under my leather gauntlets, evidently, saved my hands and forearms.) As I rapidly got out of the hissing kite a most ridiculous thing happened, and I was embarrassed to the very core. Many, many times I had sat in the cockpit of a Spitfire and religiously went through routine emergency actions of undoing this and undoing that in order to quickly get out of the cockpit if I ever had to do so. Well, I got out of the cockpit with much haste alright and started to run from the about¬-to-burn Spitfire when, all of a sudden, my head jerked back viciously and I landed with a resounding THUMP on my back on the ground. I had undone everything except the bloody oxygen hose which was one of those crinkly types which stretched like a long snake for many feet. Oh happy August 16.

My first fighter leave

2010-11-12T10:30:00.001-05:00

My first fighter leave – Ron Gridly and I first met when I was staying at one of the most sophisticated hotels in London – the YMCA. We met in the swimming pool. Grid was a Canadian in the peacetime RAF and he eventually married the beautiful red-headed Ruth who had maintained a stable of prostitutes in London.

Grid was 32 years of age and he was a former bomber pilot. He was now stationed in London. Ron and Ruth were a devoted couple and it was a pleasure to be invited into their lovely home (flat) in Kensington and to have wonderful arguments on all subjects, and at any hour.

Grid was killed in a car accident just before I left for Malta. Ruth simply gave up, I think, and she died in less than a year after Ron’s death.

When I met my Mother-away-from-home – Mrs. Fred Folkard – she said that I should invite Ron and Ruth to visit. Ron and Ruth visited with the Folkards several times and I have often wondered what Mrs. Folkard would have thought had she discovered Ruth’s capital status. Mrs. Folkard liked Ruth very much and, someway or other, I don’t think that it would have fazed Mrs. Folkard one bit.

It was the rascal Gridly who was sitting in the adjacent chair when the tonsorial artist cut all the hair from both sides of my head because I mistook an English crew-cut for a Canadian brush-cut, and because I was dozing at the time Ron started to laugh like mad. I woke up and wanted in on the fun. Grid said, “Take a look in the mirror.” I did. I jumped out of the chair, pulled the white sheet from around my neck, and grabbed the poor old English barber by his collar and yelled, “What in the hell are you trying to do?” The worst was yet to come as I wouldn’t let him cut the remainder along the top of my head. When I got back to Westhampnett I was to known as “The Iroquois” for about three weeks. In order to cover my head I ate in my wedge hat, I slept in my wedge hat, and without my wedge hat I kept out of sight as much as possible. The guys said that all I needed to do to scare the Hun pilots was take off my helmet when the Hun pilots approached.

My beautiful goggles

2010-11-10T10:30:00.000-05:00

My beautiful goggles – On my left eyebrow area, a small scar and indent were left when my goggles were kindly removed by a passing bullet. I didn’t mind the cut, but the bullet smashed my brand-new goggles. I was proud of the fancy, white goggles which my Mother had sent to me.

I never trusted goggles over my eyes when I was fighting and I kept them up on my forehead over the brow of the helmet; I wanted nothing to obstruct my view. But I often wore the goggles over my eyes for taxiing a Spitfire – especially at night. The hot materials emitting from the exhaust ports on the side of the engine and in front of the cockpit might damage the eyes. A Spitfire pilot had to, generally, lean his head out of the cockpit while taxiing because of the interference of the long upward nose of the tail-wheeled Spitfire, and, if possible, he had to angle the aeroplane slightly from side to side to see if the way was clear.

Ironies

2010-11-08T10:30:00.000-05:00

Ironies – The ironies of happenings were, at times, ridiculous. One afternoon, Dixie made an emergency landing at Manston aerodrome. On the way out of France, he flew over an E (flak) boat in the Channel and he ran his cannons and small bore from stem to stern over the boat. In return, one lousy bullet entered Dixie’s cockpit and the bullet tore the muscle from the back of his right leg. He had to keep from bleeding to death while trying to get to the nearest aerodrome which happened to be Manston. He passed out at the end of his erratic landing roll. On the other hand, and on the same sortie that afternoon, Stoopie Stoop was mauled in a dogfight and we counted no less than 72 bullet and shell holes in the length of the fuselage of his Spit and the rascal did not have a scratch on him.

A few days later, the Squadron was hard put to get nine pilots into the air upon three different scrambles in one day. The three flights were toughies and a number of holes were spread here and there in my kite. The ground was wet and the walkway on the mainplane of my aeroplane complimented the weather condition. As I got laboriously out of my cockpit, my boot slipped on the wet mainplane and I fell onto, and broke, my wrist. The ironies here were not taken lightly by Bullfrog who was having a difficult time, as it was, trying to recruit pilots, never mind experienced pilots.

Whistling & Friston, Sussex

2010-11-05T10:30:00.000-04:00

Whistling – The cannons on the Spitfires had rubber caps over the open ends of the barrels in order to keep the barrels clean and to keep moisture out. These caps were referred to as “French safes.” When a Spit returned to base after an operational flight with the safes blown, the open ends of the barrels had a type of whistling like nothing else. This meant, of course, that the returning pilot had fired the cannons and the pertinent ground crew was stirred to excitement and they would jump onto the mainplanes before the Spit came to a stop at the dispersal point to ask the pilot what he (they) had gotten. If a pilot reported that he had missed then the ground crew would leave the pilot in disgust, but if the pilot had been successful he would be lifted from the cockpit bodily.

Friston, Sussex – Friston was a grass aerodrome on the south coast of England. It consisted of former farm fields. There were two grass runways forming a “V” with a forested valley or gully between the runways or “V” with the valley or gully rising to the top of the cliffs from the sea. Each runway was humped in the middle of the length to quite an extent with the down-slope to the top of the cliffs. When one was landing into the wind and towards the sea, one thought that for sure, as one rolled over the rise or hump at a rate of speed, that one was not going to be able to brake the aeroplane in sufficient time before going over the cliff. But someway there always seemed to be enough grass left towards the cliff; it was a ‘hairy’ feeling while landing not knowing where the edge of the cliff was.

The odd little field was used as a refuelling base for fighters. Very often the pilots, including me, would plunk into Friston, whether the kites needed petrol or not, because the Salvation Army had a little tea-and-a-bun wagon there and they served hot coca and tea and, believe it or not, I once got a real orange to slowly peel and to slowly eat.

49 years of Scots

2010-11-02T10:30:00.002-04:00

49 years of Scots – Jock was an old man of 31 years of age, and Red was a young rascal of 18 years, and I loved them. They were a couple of wild Scotsmen and they were my ground crew.

When I got into my (sorry, our) kite, the rudder pedals were always set at the correct distance for me, my helmet was on the control column and plugged into the RT and oxygen outlets, my left gauntlet was hung behind the throttle lever and the right one was on the landing-gear lever, the trims were set, they always helped to fasten my parachute and Sutton harnesses, and they started the engine more times than I did both day and night. One had to be careful not to mention the simplest of things wrong with the aeroplane as Jock and Red would ground the kite until it was 100 percent again; they were of the old school of conscientious craftsmanship, thank God.

If by chance I didn’t get back to the Flight during the day or night, they would sit up the complete time waiting for word as to how I made out during the sortie.

I had a BSA motorbike (motorcycle) which I used only to go from the cottage to the Flight and return. All other times, Jock and Red used the bike. They kept the bike in excellent working order even to a continuous supply of dubiously gotten petrol mixes. One early morning, upon leaving the cottage for the Flight, I went over the handlebars of the bike and landed in a ditch and a holly hedge. Right there and then I gave the motorbike to them outrightly.

Richie’s point & It was a tough day

2010-11-01T10:30:00.000-04:00

Richie’s point – Richie landed after a wild sortie complaining to his ground crew that the back of his cockpit seat was very uncomfortable. His ground crew went immediately to inspect the seat. They came back to the Flight hut with grins on their faces and they wanted Richie to go back out to the kite with them to see what the uncomfortableness was all about. Richie was aghast at the object which had annoyed him while he tried to settle back into the seat. An armour-piercing bullet had entered the quarter-inch thick steel plating on the back of the seat, and the bullet had expended its energy with the point sticking out far enough to nag Richie’s back every time that he leaned back in the seat.

It was a tough day – Even the Winco (Bader) caught a packet, and when he landed at Westhampnett his Spitfire, in a haphazard, dead-engine way, rolled to a clumsy stop. Everybody said under their breath, “Oh no, not the Winco too.” A number of us jumped into our small van and drove out to the Winco’s kite. The air around the kite was blue. DB was a scholar in the art of cursing. When we jumped up onto the mainplanes and were looking for the worst, he pointed down to his legs. His artificial limbs were a mess; they were splayed all over the place. He cursed, “Goddamn, I wouldn’t mind if they were my own, but you can’t get these nowadays.”

The day that DB collided with a ME 109 over France, and had to bail out, did have a demoralizing effect on the Wing –- at least in “B” Flight. Later on, we escorted an old Blenheim bomber carrying a box containing artificial limbs and the box was dropped in the St. Omer area. Evidently, Bader had made his mark there also. It was a very eerie feeling flying over France and trying to look for enemy aircraft which, supposedly, were not to appear.

DW-D

2010-10-29T10:30:00.003-04:00

DW-D – When Francis-Knight was our Flight Commander, a new Spitfire was flown in. The letters “DW-D” were to be painted on the newly arrived kite but most of the pilots said that they would not fly a kite with a “D” on it; suspiciously, “D” had previously killed too many, and it was strongly suggested that “D” should be left out of the alphabetical context. Francis-Knight, never the suspicious type, said in an officious tone, “Paint ‘D’ on that aircraft.”

Nobody offered to test the new “D.” Nobody, that is, except Doley who said, “Oi’ll test the bloody koite.”

When the undercart was down on a Spitfire, it blocked out both the glycol and oil rads, so one had to get off the ground quickly to get the undercart retracted or the engine overheated, and, of course, when one was landing and it was necessary to have to go around again, one always retracted the undercart pronto. On the Spitfire, one, also, had to be sure that the mixture lever was fully back before the throttle, which was right next to the mixture lever, could be completely closed or pulled back.

Francis-Knight, along with a number of us, was standing in front of the Flight hut and near his personal, beautifully cleaned Spitfire watching Doley trying to set “D” onto the grass. But “D” kept going and going and going and going across the field at quite a clip. Doley finally opened the throttle and took off again but he didn’t bother to retract the undercart. Francis-Knight was visibly annoyed. He, and we, knew that Doley didn’t notice that the mixture lever was, evidently, not pulled back and, consequently, Doley couldn’t close the throttle. Around came Doley again, and again he couldn’t get “D” to slow down as “D” kept floating across the field. Off he went once more and Francis-Knight was beside himself as the undercart was still down. Here came Doley again, and it was obvious that he had the do-or-die attitude as in the roll on the grass this time he cut the mag switches, but it was too late. Well, Doley cut the tail off Francis-Knight’s beautiful Spitfire, and Doley and “D” ended up by running into the part of the Flight hut where the Sergeant was, at the time, writing data into his aircraft records. “D” did not catch fire. The cockpit was well jammed and all Doley could say when he was being pulled from the squeezed cockpit was, “Bloody ‘ell.” The poor Sergeant was still sitting in his chair although the chair and the Sergeant had been moved considerably and he was rigidly staring straight ahead.

Francis-Knight? Well,……… .

We felt badly, as Doley was on the train that night and we never saw him again but he had erased the “D.”

A flying can-opener & The Rolls Royce Merlin

2010-10-27T10:30:00.000-04:00

A flying can-opener – One evening, among many, a number of ME 109’s beat up Westhampnett. They made a mess of a few kites, including mine (DW-V), and they, also, messed up some aircraft of No. 616 Squadron on the opposite side of the field. I wondered what the odds were of the phenomenal happening to my Spitfire. It was opened down the razor-like back as a can-opener would open a tin-can; all the way from the empennage to the spinner, but my Spit was not set on fire.

It was miserable, at times, having to dive into a short slit trench when the enemy worked the field over and more so when the damn trench had a deal of water in it.

The Rolls Royce Merlin – The old Rolls Royce Merlin in-line engine was a most reliable engine and one could stake one’s life on it. Engine-handling procedures designated that one was not to apply the emergency overboost for more than three minutes, but I had it wide open for more than fifteen minutes on a number of occasions. After one of these occasions, the Sergeant walked into the Flight hut and showed me his two, cupped hands that were piled high with metal which he had removed from the filters. He was quite annoyed that he would have to send the engine back to the factory for rebuilding, and I was also annoyed as I grumbled, “Serge, I’m standing here.” He was, I must admit, a very understanding guy, and his eyes smiled as he walked out. I felt sorry for him because it was, indeed, difficult for him to continuously try to maintain a complement of aircraft at the time.

The worst fright

2010-10-25T10:30:00.002-04:00

The worst fright – The worst fright that I ever received as a fighter pilot was not from bullets entering the fuselage or me, as those situations had a tendency to make one annoyed. Nor was it trying to force land a riddled Spitfire as one didn’t have time to think about anything else. The worst fright was waking up and finding that I was flying formation, before daybreak, on the navigation lights of my leader’s Spitfire. This happened when many day Squadrons also did the night fighting, and because of the lack of experienced pilots, one would be on dusk patrol only to find that one would, also, be called for dawn patrol at about 0300 hours. I remembered being wakened by the batman. I remembered being driven in our small van to the mess and eating breakfast there and wondering whether or not to put catsup or marmalade on my sausage. I remembered the drive to the Flight and putting on a bulky, fleecy jacket and curling up into a big chair to cat-nap while the engines were being run up. But I was not able to recall anything from the big chair to the action of flying formation in the darkness. This frightened me to the point where I told the MO (medical officer) that it might happen again. His answer was, “Everybody seems to be having this trouble lately. It’s a normal reaction, so try and get some rest whenever you are able.”

Caruso

2010-10-22T10:30:00.000-04:00

Caruso – The old RT (radio telephone) sets in the early Spitfires had to be switched one way for receiving and in the opposite way for broadcasting. The microphone was in the canvas mask portion of the old type of leather helmet along with the oxygen intake. The switching set-up meant that one had to frig with the switch when, on many an occasion, more important things had to be done within the cockpit and, indeed, looking outside of the cockpit while fighting. So it was decided by the powers-that-were that all RT sets would be altered so that the fighter pilot could listen out and talk without having to touch the switch whatsoever. Now, one was able to hear pilots cursing under their breath, singing and humming, moaning either by nature or by legitimate injury, sneezing and coughing, praying, and so on.

One early morning, Richie and I had to take our shift escorting a convoy through the Channel and Strait. (Fighters took over from the Coastal command aircraft as the convoy entered the ‘hot’ areas of enemy aircraft action.) The latest song on the wartime hit parade was “The Last time I Saw Paris.” While Richie and I were patrolling the long convoy of ships on this beautiful, sunny morning, I was humming and barking this very song. When we got back to Westhampnett after being relieved over the convoy and were in the Flight hut, Richie said to me, “Did you hear that crazy son-of-a-bitch singing away on ‘The Last Time I Saw Paris’ all the time that we were out there?” “No,” I answered honestly. Richie went on “I couldn’t hear control at all, and the convoy could have been jumped for all I could hear.” (When two microphones were active simultaneously, the broadcast was garbled.) Richie picked up the Flight telephone and called fighter control in order to find out whether or not control had also heard the crazy SOB. And, indeed, they had. It didn’t dawn on me for a number of days that I was the crazy SOB.

After many situations such as ours, the RT system was changed back to the old method of switching, and much entertainment by the professional performers was muffled again.

Lifetime seconds & A typical return

2010-10-20T10:30:00.001-04:00

Lifetime seconds – The longest period of time that I spent in a Spitfire was actually only in seconds. These seconds lead up to the opportune time. The opportune time was awaited while a buddy, across the way in a wide, line abreast formation, was telling me to sit tight as there was a ME 109 coming down on my tail and the buddy would tell me when to break at the opportune time or second; Break too soon and the ME 109 could break inside and put his sights out in front of me and on the other hand break too late, and well ........ . Those seconds were longgggggg.

A typical return – Usually in a beehive, or any other dogfight, it was every man for himself and when the action took place over France each pilot had to get back out of France on his own. On the way out, one always looked for something of the enemy at which one could take a crack, such as, railway engines, railway stations, railway switches, military convoys, soldiers, boats sitting at docks, radio towers, and so on.

On one of my typical flights out of France, I spied, and I knew that they hadn’t seen me, many Nazi soldiers standing in a type of formation on the platform of a small railway station. I quickly hit for ground level and sneaked, parallel to the railway tracks, to finally mow down, in a matter of seconds, the lined-up soldiers. I was so intent on laying my sights on the platform that I was not aware of cutting either telephone wires or stay wires, but when I landed back at Westhampnett there were lengths of wire clinging to, and trailing from, both mainplanes.

Right idea, wrong formation

2010-10-18T10:30:00.001-04:00

Right idea, wrong formation – Bullfrog always insisted that if one were caught alone over France and high in the sky, such as after a beehive, then one should try to join up with any friendly stray aircraft on the way home. I did this one time and as I was approaching the aircraft up and in front of me I was extremely busy keeping a watch behind me. I eventually joined formation with a snarly looking ME 109 going in my direction. The Nazi pilot’s eyes were as large as saucers as, indeed, mine probably were. We both grinned with our eyes and waved. Neither broke away, of course, until we finally agreed by hand signal count to break. On the count, I broke from the yellow-nose (the spinner of the ME 109 was painted yellow) and headed full-bore for the deck and came screaming back across the Channel at nought feet and up over the cliffs of England like a dog with its tall between its legs. I was watching the pilot’s eyes every second and I didn’t even notice the identification markings of his aircraft. I have often thought about him, and how I would have liked to have met him on peaceful ground. He was, of course, very lucky to be alive as he didn’t see me approaching from behind. I never said anything to the guys when I got back, but I found out later that some of them had been in such a situation.

The Squadron’s signature

2010-10-15T14:28:00.000-04:00

The Squadron’s signature – 610 was noted for its ability to fly close formation and Bullfrog insisted upon maintaining this standard. On numerous occasions, the Squadron flew as a body, generally from nine to twelve aircraft, either up or down through thousands of feet of clouds. It was a cocky and dangerous feat and I remember that the aeroplane and its tail-wheel in front of me, upon which I was closely formatting by three or four feet just below the slipstream, was usually a dull shadow within the wet clouds of stratus or strata cumulus formations. At a time when the air was clear and heavy, it was a great feeling to see, at a quick glance, all the Spitfires of the Squadron gently riding an unseen swell. When we sometimes came back from over France as a whole, Bullfrog used to ask us to tuck in and then he would, for instance, cut across the City of Brighton so low that I could feel my rear end grazing and cleaning the steeple tips and chimney pots.

Gliders

2010-09-17T10:30:00.001-04:00

Gliders – I used to feel sorry for the glider pilots who went aloft so that fighter pilots could practice attacks on their gliders. There was a scare that gliders might be used in an invasion of England.

A glider got airborne in the corridors of towering cumulous cloud formations and Bullfrog took the Squadron up to practice attacks on the glider which was soaring gracefully. He ordered “A” Flight and “B” Flight to carry out separate line astern attacks. After a bit, these attacks became quite boring so, for a lark, each attack got closer and closer to the glider. When each one of us commenced flying directly in front of the glider in order to watch the glider up heaved by the wicked energy of the Spitfires’ slipstreams, Bullfrog called a halt to the proceedings. I supposed that the poor glider pilot, with the wet and dirty trousers, had had it too. No more attacks were ever carried out by our outfit.

Cannons

2010-09-15T10:30:00.002-04:00

Cannons – 610 was the second squadron to receive Spitfires fitted with two Hispano cannons and four Browning machine guns. There was trouble with the cannons at the start as they would stop firing after only four rounds and this was embarrassing when fighting. So upon repair, the armourers asked that the cannons be tested in the air.

There was a sunken ship which had a beautiful funnel and half of the deck above water. It was situated just off the coast, south of Westhampnett. One day, Dix and I went out together to test our cannons. As I made my attack and watched the shells rip into the funnel, I heard Dix say over the RT, “Hey Laurie, I think I saw something move near the funnel.” So we flew down very close and, sure enough, there were two live bodies crouching behind the big funnel. Although nobody, generally, read daily flying orders, nobody bloody well warned us that they had started dismantling parts of the sunken, tramp steamer.

Balloons – Sometimes a barrage balloon, dragging a dangerous cable or two, escaped its moorings and drifted across the countryside and urban areas. It became, of course, a hazard to flying and control would request that the balloon be shot down. What fun it was going after the big balloon. As a big kid, I never enjoyed fireworks more.

Elphin

2010-09-13T10:30:00.002-04:00

Elphin – The Squadron’s call signal was “Elphin.” This always amused me when I looked around, and surveyed the angels in “B” Flight.

The Flight headquarters was a tiny room in a Nissen hut and there was a beaten path to a little outhouse nearby where each pilot went to have his nervous one before take-off, or failing this, waited until he could piddle near the rudder of his kite before scrambling into the crowded cockpit.

The Flight hangar for repairing the aeroplanes was a tarpaulin strung between trees in the woods nearby.

My first promotion – Through the Grim Reaper’s act of attrition, I was made a section leader. I was to become Elphin Black One leading Elphin Black Two. On the very first flight, Doley was Black Two.

The Squadron landed at Friston, a rallying field, where DB gathered his three Squadrons (145, 610, and 616) so that they could top-up with petrol as well as having a shorter flight to ‘Bader’s bus route’ over France. It was time to go and everybody wound up their kites, including Doley, but oh no, not Black One who should be leading Black Two, Doley; I couldn’t get the engine started in my kite. In an exasperated voice, DB growled, “Who is in DW-V?” Some soul answered, “Philpotts.’’ Bader continued, “For Christ’s sake, Philpotts, put your switches on.” I looked down at the two magneto switches and I wondered as to how many times I had made cockpit checks without fail and what a horrible time to be such a silly ass. But I got Doley well lead.

Crowley Milling

2010-09-10T10:30:00.001-04:00

Crowley Milling – Crowley, our Flight Commander, was shot down along with Billie Raine and Pete Wright early one morning. We didn’t hear what happened to Crowley and we were resigned to thinking that he was missing and presumed dead. Billie and Pete were killed. Several weeks went by. Well, while McWatt and I were playing a game of shove-hapenny in the Flight hut, who should walk through the door but the living ghost, Crowley. He managed to escape when he bailed out over France. He told us of his experiences thinking that they might be of value to anyone who might be shot down and able to escape in the future. He told of sleeping with a big pig in a barn for a number of nights, and he related, “The stench of the pig was horrible but the heat that pig gave off was tremendous.” He mentioned that while on the move in urban areas he rested by standing in queues, and that he stayed in prostitutes’ houses whenever possible. One of the most ingenious actions that he made was when he was walking along a country road and all of a sudden he stumbled onto a Nazi guard post ahead. They spied him, but Milling, always the fast thinker, immediately pulled his trousers down and had a crap right in the middle of the road. Then he progressed in the direction of the guard post incorporating the actions of some local idiot, with the result that the guards would have nothing to do with him and they let him go on his way. (The well organized underground escape system in France was developed later on.)

Crowley was dead against administrational bumpff as were all good fighter pilots. He backed me up when, on one occasion, I broke an order without being aware of the order. While I was in our little hospital for a number of days, the Group Captain issued an order forbidding any more dangerously low aerobatics over the aerodromes in his command. I had just gotten out of the hospital and was dying to fly. I got airborne for some local flying when the order dribbled down to Crowley’s desk. Before I landed, I put my Spit (DW-V) just above the grass of the field, went past the windsock on a post at the perimeter of the field, and then went straight up into an upward Charlie. The only person driving on the country road and near the windsock that morning was the Groupie. I was on the mat. Crowley insisted that he should go into Group Captain Woodall’s office ahead of me in order to explain the situation. He did. I went in. The Group Captain gave me a warning. Crowley and I saluted smartly then whistled out of there quickly.

The not-by-choice entertainer

2010-09-08T10:30:00.002-04:00

The not-by-choice entertainer – There always seemed to be a pilot with two-left-feet in a Flight. I was convinced that fate put such a type there for alleviation of tension. The one in “B” Flight was a wonderful character from Wolverhampton, Bloody ‘ell Doley. Nobody ever figured how Doley got as far as he did in the flying environment. Doley was one of those Englishmen whose slicked-down, blonde hair was always falling to the side over one ear, and whose shoes were always two sizes too large.

Dixie Davis used to kid the lovin’ daylights out of Doley, yet Doley would listen religiously to anything his friend Dixie had to say to him. The fighter Spitfire carried two tanks of petrol (47 and 38 gallons if I remember correctly), one on top of the other just in behind the instrument panel. When the Spitfire was flown to altitudes over 15,000 feet each petrol gauge would register only 15 gallons remaining, so one had to roughly estimate, and soon got to know, the consumption of petrol by keeping tabs on the engine revs, the boost (inches of mercury), and the periods of time fighting or general flying. It was hard to believe that Doley never noticed, or was never told, about this phenomenon before because he had been over 25,000 feet a number of times. Nevertheless, one early morning, the Squadron was flying over France when suddenly Doley found that he had only 15 gallons left in each of his tanks. He became quite excited and hollered over the RT, “Oi’ve only got 30 gallons of petrol left, what’ll oi do?” And before Elphin Leader (Holden) could answer in his calm and collected tone, Dixie said, “Bail out you silly cunt.” Everybody, including me, turned in their cockpits to supposedly see Doley going over the side of his kite when Holden, in great consternation, quickly broke in, “I say, don’t be so foolish, Elphin Black Two.” Bullfrog went on, “Elphin Black One, you escort Elphin Black Two as far as you can, and for God’s sake try and stretch it to the Channel for air-sea rescue.” So Dixie escorted Doley towards the Channel trying to get the best airspeed for distance out of Doley’s Spitfire. But lo and behold, as soon as they reached below the 15,000 foot level, Doley, with new-found enthusiasm, quickly informed Dixie that his tanks were, now, registering almost full. Poor Dix was frustrated to the hilt as they couldn’t stooge back into France alone. He decided that they would look for any target on the way back over the drink and make for Westhampnett. They landed at Westhampnett, as fresh as daisies, in full view of the ground crews. We never knew what Dixie did or said after he got out of his aeroplane.

Bill McWatt & Joe ‘Bloody ‘ell’ Doley

2010-09-06T10:30:00.006-04:00

Bill McWatt – Billie was the only pilot known to have survived an outside loop or full bunt (centripetal force) in a Spitfire. (It was not possible to stay, at the least, under a 300mph airspeed in reaching the vertical attitude with a Spit.) Bill was unable to state exactly what happened, but someway or other while he was at 24,000 feet he was spun in a forward motion in the cockpit seat and forced onto the control column. When he came to, and was aware of his contortive condition, he was about 1,000 feet over the Channel. He managed to land relatively safely at Lympne aerodrome. When he, eventually, arrived to our little hospital, we were waiting for him, having brought his personal things to him. Although I had seen, and was yet to see some outrageous physical conditions of human beings, I have never seen a condition comparable to that of Bill’s. Two sacs of blood hung like poultry wattles from below each of his eyes, his eyes were completely red with green pupils, and he had vomited all over his torn flying suit. (About one and a half years later, I went to visit Bill in Southeast Wales. He had returned to flying although he was restricted from flying at very high altitudes. His eyeballs were still completely red. Bill’s wife said that she had recently married the ‘red flyer’. Helen, also, said that the RAF research people had been very interested in Billie’s plight.)

Joe ‘Bloody ‘ell’ Doley – Doley took a girl into a field near Chichester in order to make love to her and she finally took her high-heeled shoe off and hit him over the head, and left him in the dewy grass until he came to. He arrived to the Cottage in the early morning in a soaking wet condition.

Happy Merriman & Roland Richardson

2010-09-03T10:00:00.002-04:00

Happy Merriman – Happy was named such because every time that he was in a scrap with a ME 109 he would holler like mad for somebody to come and save him, yet he always seemed to shoot down the particular enemy aircraft chasing him at the time. For some unknown reason, Happy threw his mattress out of the Cottage window each time he shot down an enemy aircraft. Happy shot down five enemy aircraft in one day (I confirmed one of these for him as the port mainplane snapped on the ME 109) and he hollered the usual gutturalnesses all the way in getting each of them. He threw his mattress out the window five times that day, and the batman, who made up Hap’s bed, was as happy as Happy.

Roland Richardson – Good old Richie had been in the Flight longer than any other pilot and I figured, right then and there, that I would listen to this experienced fighter pilot and that I would wangle myself into his section. Later on, Richie was shot down over England and he managed to force land near Tunbridge Wells Hospital. He said that he knew he was going to have trouble getting down, so he tried to set his beat-up kite down near the best of medical help. The poor guy got down alright, but the mainplanes were caught between two trees on the Hospital estate and the fuselage came to an abrupt stop. Everybody wondered how in the blazes Richie got away with it. It shook him up for a number of weeks. (About two and a half years later, I was sitting in the mess at Rockcliffe, Ontario and who should quietly stand in front of my chair and not say a word? I looked up, and was emotionally stunned. Richie and I had much to talk about before he left for Winnipeg.)

Bill Ballard

2010-09-01T10:00:00.004-04:00

Bill Ballard – Bill was a chronic complainer, but he did this in such a manner as to make us laugh. Bill was sitting at lunch one day chuckling away, yet making intelligent cracks about the terrible food (comparatively good food actually), and remarking to us poor sword-carriers that he would be enjoying his coffee while we would be labouring shortly over distant France. (His kite was unserviceable at the time.) Poor Bill, to his chagrin, his Spitfire was put on the line and he had to go with us. The only pilot lost that afternoon was Bill. In spite of things, we had to laugh because we felt sorry for Bill, probably having to search for something to eat in Northern France while we had come home to a not-so-bad dinner.

We found out, later on, that Bill was a prisoner-of-war. But the wonderful nut, evidently, had been hit badly and he died not too long after we received the prisoner-of-war news.

Wing Commander Douglas ‘Dogsbody’ Bader used to hog the RT (radio telephone) as, after all, he was the leader, and could afford to, but, in my opinion, it was DB who shot Bill down. I was not able to call Bill because two pilots talking over the RT simultaneously jammed or garbled the transmission. I, also, was waving to him like mad, but I think that he didn’t see me. I broke over the top of Bill and his No. 2 man but they evidently didn’t get the drift of what I was trying to do. Bader landed at Westhampnett later on, and he wanted to know about Bill. To the surprise of those present, and the Englishman’s pride of protocol, I walked over to Bader and said that, in all due respect, he shot down Bill Ballard. My goose was cooked with the authorities over me, and especially with DB. I felt exhilarated.

Billie Raine, Georgie Mains & Pete Wright

2010-08-30T10:00:00.002-04:00

Billie Raine – Billie had no right ear and the right side of his face and head had been burned. These were repaired as best as possible. This disfigurement affected him psychologically as he was, previously, quite a lady’s man. Before he was lost, however, he was well on his way back to the recovery of schmaltz.

Georgie Mains – Georgie, a Scotsman, thought that he wasn’t married when he actually was. When he was getting married to Betty, each pilot of the Squadron in his Spitfire beat the church up, one right after the other, at steeple height over and over again so loudly that Georgie and Betty couldn’t hear the rector or themselves. They said that they weren’t sure that they were churched.

Pete Wright – Pete was a quiet one, but before he was lost his guns were intently loud. It was Pete who suggested to me never to perform aerobatics, such as a victory roll or upward Charlie, after coming back in an elated state from a beehive (turning of many aircraft in a dogfight) or at any time that one was jarred by flak (anti-aircraft fire from the ground or a ship) because there might have been damage to the control system, and aerobatics did, indeed, put much stress on the control surfaces.