The Untold Battle of Britain

[FOZ_1983]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhPHIoPfMfY

[bobbysocks]

The "Few" in Their "Finest Hour"

In the summer of 1940, twenty-one-year-old Pilot Officer John Beard was a member of a squadron of Hurricanes based near London. Waiting on the airfield while his plane is rearmed and refueled, Beard receives word of a large German attack force making its way up the Thames River towards London. The afternoon sun illuminates a cloudless blue sky as Beard and his fellow pilots lift their planes off the grass airstrip and climb to meet the enemy. The defenders level off at 15,000 feet and wait for the attackers to appear:

"Minutes went by. Green fields and roads were now beneath us. I scanned the sky and the horizon for the first glimpse of the Germans. A new vector came through on the R.T. [radio telephone] and we swung round with the sun behind us. Swift on the heels of this I heard Yellow flight leader call through the earphones. I looked quickly toward Yellow's position, and there they were!

It was really a terrific sight and quite beautiful. First they seemed just a cloud of light as the sun caught the many glistening chromium parts of their engines, their windshields, and the spin of their airscrew discs. Then, as our squadron hurtled nearer, the details stood out. I could see the bright-yellow noses of Messerschmitt fighters sandwiching the bombers, and could even pick out some of the types. The sky seemed full of them, packed in layers thousands of feet deep. They came on steadily, wavering up and down along the horizon. 'Oh, golly,' I thought, 'golly, golly . . .'

And then any tension I had felt on the way suddenly left me. I was elated but very calm. I leaned over and switched on my reflector sight, flicked the catch on the gun button from 'Safe' to 'Fire,' and lowered my seat till the circle and dot on the reflector sight shone darkly red in front of my eyes.

The squadron leader's voice came through the earphones, giving tactical orders. We swung round in a great circle to attack on their beam-into the thick of them. Then, on the order, down we went. I took my hand from the throttle lever so as to get both hands on the stick, and my thumb played neatly across the gun button. You have to steady a fighter just as you have to steady a rifle before you fire it.

My Merlin [the airplane's engine] screamed as I went down in a steeply banked dive on to the tail of a forward line of Heinkels. I knew the air was full of aircraft flinging themselves about in all directions, but, hunched and snuggled down behind my sight, I was conscious only of the Heinkel I had picked out. As the angle of my dive increased, the enemy machine loomed larger in the sight field, heaved toward the red dot, and then he was there!

I had an instant's flash of amazement at the Heinkel proceeding so regularly on its way with a fighter on its tail. 'Why doesn't the fool move?' I thought, and actually caught myself flexing my muscles into the action I would have taken had I been he.

When he was square across the sight I pressed the button. There was a smooth trembling of my Hurricane as the eight-gun squirt shot out. I gave him a two-second burst and then another. Cordite fumes blew back into the cockpit, making an acrid mixture with the smell of hot oil and the air-compressors.

I saw my first burst go in and, just as I was on top of him and turning away, I noticed a red glow inside the bomber. I turned tightly into position again and now saw several short tongues of flame lick out along the fuselage. Then he went down in a spin, blanketed with smoke and with pieces flying off.

I left him plummeting down and, horsing back on my stick, climbed up again for more. The sky was clearing, but ahead toward London I saw a small, tight formation of bombers completely encircled by a ring of Messerschmitts. They were still heading north. As I raced forward, three flights of Spitfires came zooming up from beneath them in a sort of Prince-of-Wales's-feathers maneuver. They burst through upward and outward, their guns going all the time. They must have each got one, for an instant later I saw the most extraordinary sight of eight German bombers and fighters diving earthward together in flames.

I turned away again and streaked after some distant specks ahead. Diving down, I noticed that the running progress of the battle had brought me over London again. I could see the network of streets with the green space of Kensington Gardens, and I had an instant's glimpse of the Round Pond, where I sailed boats when I was a child. In that moment, and as I was rapidly overhauling the Germans ahead, a Dornier 17 sped right across my line of flight, closely pursued by a Hurricane. And behind the Hurricane came two Messerschmitts. He was too intent to have seen them and they had not seen me! They were coming slightly toward me. It was perfect. A kick at the rudder and I swung in toward them, thumbed the gun button, and let them have it. The first burst was placed just the right distance ahead of the leading Messerschmitt. He ran slap into it and he simply came to pieces in the air. His companion, with one of the speediest and most brilliant 'get-outs' I have ever seen, went right away in a half Immelmann turn. I missed him completely. He must almost have been hit by the pieces of the leader but he got away. I hand it to him.

At that moment some instinct made me glance up at my rear-view mirror and spot two Messerschmitts closing in on my tail. Instantly I hauled back on the stick and streaked upward. And just in time. For as I flicked into the climb, I saw, the tracer streaks pass beneath me. As I turned I had a quick look round the "office" [cockpit]. My fuel reserve was running out and I had only about a second's supply of ammunition left. I was certainly in no condition to take on two Messerschrnitts. But they seemed no more eager than I was. Perhaps they were in the same position, for they turned away for home. I put my nose down and did likewise."

[bobbysocks]

interesting series called 'lost evidence...the battle of britian". its in 5 parts. here's pt 1. just follow the link for the rest.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DeaGM...eature=related

[bobbysocks]

another BoB vet....

This Bf 109 was built in 1939. it was known to have flown in battle of France and the battle of Britain as an E1. After upgrade to an E7 it was delivered to the eastern front where it was flown by the highly decorated German pilot Wulf- Dietrich Widowitz. He was shot down by a Hurricane whilst on an escort mission in 1942.He made a near perfect, forced, wheels-up landing on the ice of a frozen lake. The plane sank through the ice an came to rest on the lake-bed. Widowitz died more than a year later in another crash landing. It remaind untouched until its recovery in 2003

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-VpS...layer_embedded

[bobbysocks]

Battle of Britain's humble WWII pilot Bill Green
By Peter Sherlock BBC News

Sgt Bill Green had been part of the Battle of Britain for nine days when he was shot down by a German fighter.

The Germans' Blitzkrieg warfare had overrun Belgium, the Netherlands and northern France in May 1940. Hitler had discussed plans to invade Britain, initially using the Luftwaffe to win air superiority over the English Channel.

On 29 August, Mr Green was an inexperienced pilot flying at a height of 20,000ft above Deal in Kent.
He said: "If you had said to me, 'Is there any chance there would be any aircraft in the sky that you haven't seen?' I would have said, 'No chance.'
"But suddenly, a hole appeared in the bullet proof windscreen in front of me and I immediately started to get covered in glycol (engine antifreeze).
"I realized I had to get out. I had got as far as taking the weight off my bottom and onto my feet when I was sucked out."
The force with which Sgt Green rushed through the air ripped the boots off his feet. He pulled the rip cord of his parachute but nothing happened.
As he plummeted to earth at 120mph, the 23-year-old's thoughts turned to his wife, Bertha.
"I had only been married for about 12 weeks and I supposed I was seeking my end - for I was sure it was going to happen - through thoughts of my wife," he said.
"I remember clearly thinking, 'I wonder if Bertha will wonder if I wondered what it was going to be like when I hit the deck.'
"I remember praying. I wasn't Christian at the time, I am now.
"I remember saying, 'Please God open this bloody parachute' and quite magically the wind got under one of the folds with some vigor and kicked me back with a jolt. The quietude that hit me had more impact than any noise I've ever heard. and with that I thought, 'My god I'm alive.'"
Mr Green likened the summer of 1940 to having a role in Lewis Carroll's novel Alice in Wonderland. He had joined the Royal Auxiliary Air Force as an engine fitter in December 1936, and shortly before the outbreak of war, he trained as a pilot. Just 11 days before he was shot down above Kent, he flew a Hurricane for the first time.
Mr Green recalled the moment his commanding officer asked him to test the single-seater fighter at Biggin Hill airfield in Kent.
"He said, 'See that one, go and sit in it, and when you feel comfortable, whack it off'", Mr Green said.
"I said, 'Hang about, I need to know a little bit about it. What speed does it lift off? What speed does it come in?'
"But I went and sat in it, and when I was more afraid to get out than I was to take off, off I went and frightened myself to death."

'Light flashing'

The day after his first encounter with a Hurricane, he was transferred to RAF Gravesend at the request of his commanding officer.
Mr Green, who is now 93 and living in Somerset, said: "I learned in retrospect we had lost four aircraft and four pilots the day before so he was desperate for people like me.
"So I flew back, was shown a bed in a hut. I had a cup of cocoa and a cheese sandwich and got my head down.
"In the early hours of the morning there was a light flashing in my face and I said, 'No, no, not me. I'm green, I've just arrived'."
But later that morning, he was transferred to RAF Hawkinge in Kent where 501 Squadron was based.
It was 20 August and Sgt Green had officially joined the Battle of Britain, one of the most crucial battles in British history.
Nine days later, he was shot down.

After his parachute finally opened, he landed on a farm in Elham Valley near Folkestone.
He said: "I sat in a field on my bottom and looked around. The field was full of thistles and cowpats and I thought, 'I've got to walk around this old trash in my stockinged feet'.
"Then two blokes came out of the farmhouse with shotguns and realized I was English. "They helped me up and I couldn't stand because I'd been hit, without knowing it, in the leg. "They took me back to the farmhouse and gave me a cup of tea and that was the end of the Battle of Britain as far as I was concerned." Mr Green continued to serve with the RAF, reaching the rank of Flight Lieutenant.

[bobbysocks]

ok back to reality....

some quotes & stuff from BoB pilots....from both sides:

Funny this was, although I worked in banking, I had applied to get into the RCAF but it appeared that they didn't want me. With the war just started in England, I felt that I had a chance over there.
At the time the RAF were taking just about anybody they could get their hands on. They had a terrific shortage of pilots, I think half of the pilots were from the Commonwealth, a lot of us were Canadians. I applied, I got called up on a Monday, had the medical on Wednesday and sailed for England on the Friday.
Pilot Officer Alfred Keith Ogilvie 609 Squadron RAF

"Look, you've got to face it, France was a shambles. Everyone tried their best, but most of us pilots were not only new to flying in combat, we were new to flying in general. If an Me was coming towards you firing all guns, you would push the stick forward, your heart seems to go up into your throat as he he flies past you. You know he's going to make a tight turn, the Me was like that, and your ticker would be pounding nine to the dozen as you looked in the mirror, looked from side to side but couldn't see him, but you knew he was there, instinct told you he was there. For the new pilot it was panic stations, okay, we were told not to panic, but it was human nature. We learnt by those mistakes, your leader might call out over the radio that the 'hun' was on your tail calling you by your code name, but in a state of panic, it was not unusual to even forget what your code name was.
Sgt G.C.Bennett 609 Squadron. (Later killed in 1941)

"We were ordered to to attack the advancing German columns around Sedan. On the 11th and 12th May, everybody got back alright. Then on the 13th May five of our aircraft went again on exactly the same course for the third day running. Only one came back. After that it was chaos. We did some leaflet dropping at night. Those of us who were left moved from field to field, half a dozen times a fortnight. A lot of people just got lost. We ended up with two other Battles from Squadrons we did not know, alone in a field somewhere in Central France...........Our aircraft was had been damaged a good bit by then, but we found another that was missing a tail wheel, we put our tail wheel on it, pushed the ground crew in the back, and took off. All I had was a cycling map of Northern France."
Sgt Arthur Power 88 'Battle' Squadron

It was hard when word came in that one of your mates was missing, another pilot may have given a graphic account of how he saw someone go down in flames and hadn't a chance to bale out. You sort of somehow found a big hole in your stomach momentarily. But you could not afford to think of such matters, you put your mind to other things, you got drunk or whatever. You train yourself to think of only one thing, and that is the job that lies ahead."
George Barclay 151 Squadron.

"We were all amateurs. Yet the young pilots lived their lives to the full because they knew that any day they'd be dead."
Gregory Kirkorian. RAF Squadron Intelligence

"The waiting was the worst part, we'd sit around playing poker with that tension pit in our stomachs - it was almost a relief when we heard the phone ring to scramble."
Group Captain Peter Matthews.

from the LW side...no names on a few:

"We were idealists with the honor of being part of the most elite fighting force in the world"

"........we listen to the spell binding words of our leader and accept them with all our hearts. Never before have we experienced such a deep sense of patriotic devotion towards our beloved German fatherland. I shall never, never forget the expressions of rapture which I saw on the faces around me today."

"It was the first time I had experienced this. . . it was a kind of ticky, ticky, tick. . but it made me feel good that it had protected me. Anyway, what I did was evade whoever was firing at me by nose-diving. Now, I thought, I've got rid of it, so I climbed up again trying to catch up with the unit. I remember thinking, Well, this isn't so bad . . . The protection had held . . . but I was still climbing and suddenly there was a second attack from behind. It was so fast that I couldn't evade before it came . . . at least, I as a beginner couldn't. Suddenly he was there and immediately I went down again. While I was diving I thought, Well, what do I do now?
Some pilots said that in such a case you just go down to tree-top level and go home . . . but I thought, Well, that sounds too easy, so I decided to climb up again.., which was a big mistake that an experienced man would not have made. Then as I was climbing again suddenly I was attacked from below to the right-hand side. Someone who was more at home playing these games had come from below from the right-hand side. In this area there was no protective armour so it was a real problem.
The glass from the cockpit was splintering, the instrument panel splattered and now I was really hit. . . or many hits. Somehow at that point I blacked out. When I came to I found myself in a vertical dive and what I noticed was lots of noise, a kind of fluid coming from the side of the plane and what struck me was that the ground was approaching very fast. I realized that I had to catch the plane immediately and get it out of the dive. I did and in doing so my blood rushed from my head and I blacked out again. When I came to I found I was at tree-top level with little power left in the machine. It could still fly but with no power. I was now very, very low and had to look for somewhere to land. At this stage I looked around and found that there were two Spitfires behind me and they were shooting occasionally, but I guess it was difficult to shoot at me because I was going so slow and was not flying in a straight line. I don’t know whether they didn’t shoot me because they saw I was in a difficult situation....anyway, I just saw an English park-like landscape, some bushes and trees. There was a group of trees ahead of me and I said to myself, Well, gee, what I have to do is to try to get enough speed by flying directly at the trees and then hope that I have enough speed to jump over them and then go down. I did this and then blacked out once more.
Bruno Petrenko ex Bf109 pilot now living in Canada

back to the uk allies

"We learned tactics pretty quickly, but there wasn’t much time during the Battle. We learned to spread the vics. One chap was put in as ‘weaver’ — arse-end Charlie — weaving about behind our formation, keeping look-out. They were often shot down, weaving behind and never seen again.

Sailor Malan was the best pilot of the war, a good tactician; above average pilot and an excellent shot. In the end it comes down to being able to shoot. I was an above average pilot, but not a good shot, so the only way I could succeed was to get closer than the next chap. This wasn’t easy Johnny Johnson was a pretty good, average pilot, but an excellent shot.

The answer was that there were was no really successful shooting parameter above 5 degree deflection. Most kills were from behind, coming down on the enemy, or head-on, or in 5 degrees deflection. The Spitfires guns were harmonized to about 450 yards, but this was spread too far across. Sailor Malan trimmed his own guns down to 200-250 yards, and we all followed suit. At the end of the day, you had to have luck, and I had my share. Once I had my watch shot off my wrist. It was my own watch, and the Air Ministry wouldn’t pay me back for it! Another had a bullet hit his headphones. His ear was a bit of a mess, but at least he was alive.”
Air Commodore Alan Deere CBE. DSO. DFC. ex 54 Sqn, 602 Sqn and 611 Sqn RAF

from: http://www.battleofbritain1940.net/0004.html

[bobbysocks]

more stories:

I woke as the the airman orderly tapped my shoulder and repeated, "Come along Sir, come along Sir, 4.30" in my ear. It was very cold in the hut and dark, so I wrestled with myself for a few minutes and then jumped out of bed and put on my flying kit quickly. Irvin trousers over my pajamas, sweater, flying boots, scarf, Irvin jacket......I left the hut to look at my aeroplane.

I climbed into the cockpit out of which the fitter had just stepped, "Morning Williams, morning French, put my 'chute on the tail please," I checked the instruments one by one: petrol tanks full; tail trimming wheels neutral; airscrew fine pitch; directional; gyro set; helmet on reflector sight with oxygen and R/T leads connected - in fact everything as I liked it for a quick getaway when we scrambled.

Returning to the hut I found Hathaway, the orderly lighting the fire by the light of a hurricane lamp, while Chips lay fast asleep in a deck chair, his head lolling down on his yellow Mae-West. I lay down, and immediately became unconscious as if doped.......What seemed the next moment I woke with a terrific start to see everyone pouring out of the hut.......I could hear the telephone orderly repeating: "Dover 26,000; fifty plus bandits approaching from south-east."

Horton shouted, "Scramble Bill, lazy bastard," and automatically I ran out. Parachute on, pulled into cockpit by crew who had already started the engine. Straps, helmet, gloves, check the knobs, taxi out, get into the right position in my section and take off. I put the R/T on, and only then do I wake up and realize I am in the air flying with the distance between the ground and the Spitfire increasing all the time......
George Barclay 249 Sqn - Len Deighton/ Battle of Britain p122

As the twelve Spitfires maneuvered into formation, and climbed for the east, I glanced down at my watch. Under ninety seconds. 'Not bad. Hope the old man was impressed.'
I started to wonder if we'd be too late again. Somehow the Controllers seemed slower these days. (They were - the communications network had been hard hit. But what they gave was far more accurate....well, sometimes. Everyone was learning.) "Parlor Leader, hullo, Parlor Leader. Many bandits approaching Dungeness, Angels 15 and above. Buster!"

Thin trails of smoke reached back from the exhaust ports. I looked over at my number two, "pull in Chips, pull in, your too far out....and pull up a bit.......and watch that sun, that's where the bastards will be coming from." and from Chips, I wouldn't expect anything else for a reply, "and I suppose you want me to watch me mirror too sir!!!"

I had to start thinking tactics, we should really add a couple of thousand feet to our directed height, better to be a little too high, than caught in the murderous fire raining down from the 109s.... Johnson, rehearsing in his mind his first - and only kill; a bomber nearly two weeks ago. Had it been a fluke? could he ever do it again? Chips, with five to his credit, wondering if was really true that you got the DFM for six kills.....he switched on the reflector sight, and turned the knurled knob until the brightness was exactly right. By now, a hardened veteran at 21, he knew what to expect. We were climbing higher; he set the bars to the wingspan of a 109. Chalkie Turner, on his first operational sortie, checking every dial, every setting again and again, practicing lifesaving tips he'd managed to pick up from the others. Get the head moving - check above, behind, to the beam......And Horton, humming contentedly away in his cockpit again, adrenaline pumping already, senses alive.

"Jesus Christ, it's the whole of the Luftwaffe......" Shimmering in the morning sun, wave upon wave of bombers, driving for London. Stepped above and behind, the serried ranks of Messerschmitts. Covering mile upon mile of sky, as far as the eye could see. It was at once magnificent and terrible.
"Parlor Squadron, aim for the bombers. Look out for snappers coming down.....here they come.....Parlor, break, break"

Suddenly the sky was dissolved into whirling confusion, the headphones filled with snatches of command, of exultation, of warning, of stark terror.
"He's a flamer.....Jeez, that was close.....Hey, look out!"
"Go for the bombers......more at two o'clock......"
"Hold on Hamish, I'm coming. Hold on!"
Chips was jinking left, then right, as the tracer flashed past; suddenly, a twin reared up in his sights - long glasshouse, a 110. He let fly, saw little chips float off as the Messerschmitt completed its bunt. One damaged. He dived for the protection of the haze.

I was there again, and cautiously lifted the Spitfire up again, and was once again shocked by the sight of hundreds of black-crossed aircraft in unbroken phalanxes boring for London. What had all the sweat, the turmoil, the sacrifices of the last few minutes been for I wondered. I squirted at a Heinkel, and sank below the haze as it flew solidly on. I headed east, then rose again, hoping to come on the flank of the raid. Still they were there in dozens. By now, I was quite alone, fuel was low and circled long enough to take in the sight of bombs raining down over the docks. Fires springing up from Tilbury, a vast white splash in the Thames Estuary. Hope it's not one of one of our boys, I thought. I swung for home and three 109s suddenly appeared and slanted across from the right. Instinctively, I fired at the nearest; it rolled onto its back and dived away. I couldn't hang around to watch the results, with the other two whipping round to attack. Yellow noses - did that really mean a crack unit? - the thought was fleeting. I fired - the guns clattered briefly, then stopped. Time to go. I shoved the nose down, twisted, jinked, aileron turned, and all the time the 109s clinged to my elusive Spitfire. These boys were really good. With the altimeter unwinding like a sweep second hand, I finally found sanctuary right down among the Slough balloon barrage, and threaded my way carefully to the west.
Douglas McRoberts/Lions Rampant pp97-99

I landed the Spitfire back at the home base, and bumped my way across the grass towards the hangars, throwing the hood back and filled my lungs with fresh, clean English air. I came to a standstill, and the ground staff were immediately taken to task in refueling and rearming. I jumped out onto the wing, then down to the ground, "Running on fumes now, are we Sir." said the sergeant bending down and looking at me from under the wing. "We both are," I replied pulling my helmet and goggles off and making my way over to 'the hut', "both of us are exhausted."
"That bad is it Sir." he said,
"....and its going to get worse, " I said walking away almost shouting, "the bastards are in London."

As I got near to the dispersal hut, I saw a lean figure hurriedly put his head out of the window, "B Flight, "Scramble!!!" he had hardly got all the words out of his mouth as five or six bodies that were lazily lounging around outside sprang to their feet and ran to their awaiting aircraft. If they're going where I think they're going, there going to be in for it. By the time I got inside, the place was deserted except for the despatch clerk and Horton who had already beaten me down. "Any of the others back?" I asked pouring a cup of tea from the urn.

We both walked outside and sat down in the now vacant deckchairs. "No, just me, I was back first for a change," he paused, "....mind you, if it wasn't for being low on juice, I would have gone to Margate....they tell me it's nice there at this time of year."

As we sat there, almost in a melancholy silence, the others came back one by one......Chips, Hamish, Turner, it seemed that we had all made it back, a little tired, a little weary and our thoughts were with the other flight that had gone out to take our place.

The rest that we had all looked forward to was short lived. I was just about to go and see 'the old man' when the telephone rang again, there was a short silence then "Everybody up....scramble."
There had been hardly enough time to service the aircraft, but we ran all the same, fired up the Merlins and within seconds we were bouncing across the grass with throttles open, and doing it all over again.
No Margin for Error/Author

The raid on London must be continuing as we were vectored to the same position we had been earlier. Again I started to think tactics, height, gain the advantage of height and again ascended two thousand more than our directed height.

With South London below, I catched a glimpse of a formation of enemy bombers as we turn southwest of London. I decide to maneuver our section to engage a group of Dornier Do17s from the beam but at the last instant the Germans turned so that a co-ordinated assault becomes impossible. My plan has gone astray, "Parlor Squadron, Parlor Squadron, okay boys...pick your target, break....break.....break" I instruct the men to break up and make individual attacks, I took the leading Dornier. I turned, then closed fast, I fire a four second burst before diving underneath and swinging around for a second attack from the other side. This time I fired for two seconds before banking away. The leading Dornier seems undamaged but suddenly the second bomber in the formation breaks away and falls into a dive. I turn off, and spot a single Messerschmitt Bf109 below and ahead. I follow it through the thick smoke billowing over the Thames and finally catch up with it over the Estuary. I fired for three seconds. The 109 is hit and a stream of black smoke trails behind his tail so I close in to 50 yards and fired for the last time. Pieces of the German fighter are torn away before it suddenly bursts into flames and then explodes in fire and brimstone with pieces of wreckage going in all directions.

I returned back towards London. The scene below is devastating. A huge spiralling cylinder of thick black smoke from burning warehouses near the docks billows steadily up into the clouds. The docks and warehouses are ablaze as London's East End is hammered.
The sun glints on the wings of the German bombers as they turn followed by the flak. Smaller planes dart in and out of the enemy formation, and the German planes are scattered but there are so many that they seem impossible to stop.

I make contact with Horton and Chips, we gain height where the air is a little clearer and more room to move in safety as the bombers are below us and with no sign of 109s. A short conversation and I instruct them to go in again. Horton picked a target and banked away and I lost sight of him as he went down. Chips put his nose down and headed for a group of three Dorniers, I follow him to the left and behind. "Parlor break, Parlor break, bandits two o'clock" I gathered that it would only be a matter of minutes before the 109s would be on us.

Chips is still diving down at the bombers. He is ahead of me as he closes in on a straggling Dornier. I continue to follow him down and saw him make a quarter attack on the German bomber. Large pieces fly off the enemy machine, then a wing crumples as it goes down spinning. An instant later I see a Spitfire which I assume to be that of Chips, spinning down with about a third of its wing broken off.....Has there been a collision? The Spitfire spins wildly and he has no chance to bail out. Another casualty of this wretched war.

After doing my best to forget for the time being what I saw, taking time out to wallow in my feelings for Chips could spell trouble, one does not do that sort of thing and become another target for the enemy. I turned and attacked the bombers, evaded more 109s, I get a Dornier, and a probable, and possibly a share of a 109, but with ammunition exhausted, and fuel tanks close to empty, we land back at our airfield in ones and twos. Pilots climb wearily out of their cockpits in grim silence carrying in their minds an unforgettable picture of the seemingly impregnable bulk of the German formations and of the terrible firestorm in London.
A Few of the Few/Dennis Newton pp116-117

For the front line squadrons, the daily routine varied little. Dowding had implied that each squadron be allowed one days rest a week, but this was not always possible. A normal battle day with a day fighter squadron could begin as early as 3.30am and carried on until stand down at around 8.00pm. Some flights or entire squadrons would be at readiness to take off within five minutes which, in actual practice, meant two or three minutes. Sometimes there would be a section on standby, with the pilots in their cockpits and able to be off the ground in a minute or so. Breakfast or a sandwich lunch would probably be brought to the dispersal points around the airfield.

It was now just after midday, we had flown two sorties today and that had taken the stuffing out of most of us, we were glad of the rest, no doubt other squadrons had been sent in to relieve us were over London, and we were now enjoying the rest, no matter how brief it may be. In the intervals between flights, we dozed on beds or chairs in the crew huts - or in tents for those at satellite airfields - or even on the grass. Some read, some played cards, draughts or chess. Tiredness inhibited conversation.

Periodically the telephone rang jerking us all into boggled eyed alertness. More often than not the telephone orderly would call one of us to some innocuous administrative call and the tension of another anticipated order to combat receded. That telephone played hell with our nerves. I don't think any of us pilots ever again appreciated the virtues of Mr Bell's invention. Sooner or later though, the action charged instruction came through. The orderly would pause, listen and then bawl "Squadron scramble, Maidstone, Angels two zero."

Before he'd relayed the message we were away sprinting to our Spitfires, It was on again, the sheer hell of the mornings sorties were now behind us, as was the precious couple of hours rest that we had just enjoyed, only one thing remained in our thoughts, and that was to get to those Spitfires as quickly as possible.

As we ran, the fitters fired the starter cartridges and the propellers turned with engines roaring into life as flame and a puff of smoke was emitted from the Spitfires short exhausts. From strapping in to chocks away it was just a matter of seconds. We taxied to the take off point on the broad grass airfield, and pausing only to get the last aircraft to get into position, then stopping and looking towards the operations room waiting for the signal to take off. Seconds seem like minutes as we wait, "C'mon 'Matron' we havn't got all day" I said to which I got the curt reply, "Parlor Leader, you must learn to be a little patient!!" At last I led a flotilla of twelve Spitfires that were gunning their throttles and speeding away on the take-off in a wide vic formation of flights.

As we got airborne, we snapped the canopies shut, and pulling the undercarriage lever, the wheels were sucked into their wells. I glanced around on all sides making sure that the squadron were all in position. "Rastus Parlor airborne" I called over the R/T, to which the ground controller replied "OK, Parlor leader, one hundred plus bandits south of Ashford heading north west angels fifteen. Vector 130, Buster." Buster meant the fastest speed attainable, so there was no time for sightseeing this trip, Oh for a nice easy patrol!!

We struggled to gain every inch of height in the shortest possible time we gradually emerged out of the filthy black haze which perpetually hung like a blanket over London. Suddenly around 12,000 feet we broke through the smog layer and a different world emerged, startling in its sun drenched clarity. Long streaming contrails snaked way above us from the Channel coast as the Messerschmitt high flying fighters weaved protectively over their menacing bomber formations. Our radios became almost unintelligible as pilots in our numerous intercepting squadrons called out sightings, attack orders, warnings and frustrated oaths. Somehow, a familiar voice of any one of our pilots would call out and break through the radio chatter with an urgent "Parlor leader, bandits eleven o'clock level."
Battle of Britain/ Richard Townshend Bickers pp141-143

I fastened on to the tail of of a yellow nosed Messerschmitt, I fought to bring my guns to bear as the range rapidly decreased, and when the wingspan of the enemy aircraft fitted snugly into the range scale bars of my reflector sight, I pressed the firing button. There was an immediate response from my eight Brownings which, to the accompaniment of a slight bucketing from my aircraft, spat a stream of lethal lead targetwards. 'Got you' I muttered to myself as the small dancing yellow flames of exploding 'De Wilde' bullets splattered along the Messerschmitts fuselage. Before I could fire another burst, two 109s wheeled in behind me. I broke hard into attack pulling the Spitfire into a climbing, spiraling turn, as I did so: a maneuver I had discovered in previous combats with 109s to be particularly effective. And it was no less effective now, the Messerschmitts literally "fell out of the sky" as they stalled in an attempt to follow me.

I soon found another target. About 3,000 yards in front of me, and at the same level, a Hun was just completing a turn preparatory to to re-entering the fray. He must have seen me almost immediately, he rolled out of his turn towards me so that a head on attack became inevitable. Using both hands on the control column to steady the aircraft and to keep my aim steady, I peered through the reflector sight at the rapidly closing 109. We appeared to open fire together, and immediately a hail of lead thudded into my Spitfire. One moment, the Messerschmitt was a clearly defined shape, its wingspan nicely enclosed within the circle of my reflector sight, and the next it was on top of me, a terrifying blur which blotted out the sky ahead. Then we hit, his tailplane had dug into the Spitfires fusalage just behind the canopy, what damage had been done I didn't know, but the sound of ripping fusalage gave me real cause for concern.

The impact pitched me violently forward on to my cockpit harness, the straps of which bit viciously into my shoulders. At the same moment, the control column was snatched abruptly from my gripping fingers by a momentary, but powerful, reversal of elevator load. In a flash it was all over: there was clear sky ahead of me, and I thought for a moment, "God, I'm still alive," But I could see puffs of smoke and the odd flame coming from the engine cowling,the engine began to vibrate, slowly at first, but now, with increasing momentum causing the now regained control column to jump backwards and forwards in my hand. The bugger must have managed to get in a few shots whit found their target somewhere in the engine bay. I had to think quick, I closed the throttle, and reached forward and flicked off the ignition switches, but before I could do so, the engine seized and the airscrew came to an abrupt halt. I saw with amazement, that the blades had been bent almost double with the impact of the collision, the 109. How close was that I thought.

Smoke started to pour into the cockpit, I tugged at the hood release toggle, but could not release it, how I would welcome a rush of air now, I tried again with the normal release catch, but to no avail. There was only one thing to do, and that was to keep the aircraft under control. The speed had now dropped off considerably and with a strong backward pressure on the stick, I was able to keep a reasonable gliding altitude.

Frantically, I peered through the smoke and flame that was now enveloping the engine, trying to seek out what lay ahead. I daren't turn the aircraft, I had no idea as to what other damage may have been done, and at low level, even a small turn would be out of the question.

Through a miasmatic cloud of flame and smoke the ground suddenly appeared ahead of me. The next moment a post flashed by my wing tip and then the Spitfire struck the ground and ricocheted back into the air again finally returning to earth with a jarring impact, and once again I was jerked forward on to my harness. The straps held fast, and continued to do so as the aircraft ploughed its way through a succession of posts before finally coming to rest on the edge of a cornfield. The now dense smoke blinded my eyes, and my throat felt raw, I tried to keep swallowing, but it was almost as if my tongue was being welded to the roof of my mouth. For the first time, I became frantic with fear, I tore at my harness release pin then battered at the perspex hood in an effort to escape from the cockpit which entombed me. Then at last, with a splintering crash the hood finally cracked open, thus I was able to scramble clear from the cockpit and in the safety of the surrounding field.
Based on an experience of F/Lt Al Deere

For a while I was completely disorientated, come to think of it, where was I, the field was relatively quiet, and peaceful, the sky was clear, but I could see the vapour trails in one direction, "that surely must be over London, no, wait, where did we make contact with the enemy, God I don't know....yes I do, Ashford," the sky was just one huge sheet of silken haze, but a very bright spot indicated to me the position of the sun and that was the direction of west as it was now late afternoon.

I relieved myself of my helmet, and unbuttoned my Alvin jacket and decided to walk leaving the burning plane in the empty field.

Well, for me, another day over. All I had to do was to get to the nearest airfield and I would soon be back at base. My story would be told, along with the many others that would be told that evening, maybe in the mess, maybe down at the local pub, all it wanted was for someone to come up with a suggestion. After a few beers, or a game of cards, maybe a letter to the folks at home may be written....yes I owe them a letter, oh, better write a letter to "Chip's" family.....a task we all dread, then the events of the day will soon be a thing of the past, remembered just how I want to remember them, or how I describe them in my letters. Tonight, I will sleep like a baby, lost in another world perhaps, only to be interrupted by that all too familiar call....."Come along Sir, come along Sir, 4.30"..................

from: http://www.battleofbritain1940.net/document-17.html

[Gilly]

Quality Bobby. As much as the words convey the sentiment I don't think any of us can truely grasp what it must have been like.

[Gilly]

British Pathe website with plenty of war footage incl BoB

http://www.britishpathe.com/results....tle+of+britain

[bobbysocks]

"First Light" a feature length program about the BoB is scheduled to aire on BBC2 on tuesday sept 14 @ 9pm. its based on Geoffrey Wellum's autobiography by the same name. hopefully BBC america will aire this sometime in the future. so enjoy boys...