A Spitfire Pilot - Part 36.
I hung around the Station Adj’s office for some time and when I eventually saw him, I explained what I wanted and he took me in to the Group Captain, whose name, I think, was Edwardes-Jones, and again I had to explain where I’d come from and what I wanted and all I got out of this good Group Captain, was the fact that he was unable to authorise me to take another aircraft from Maison Blanche back to Souk-el-Arba because it would only get shot up on the ground, so go away and be a good boy.
I tried to explain that by having more aircraft there we stood a fair chance of keeping the Jerries off and therefore there’d be less shot up on the ground, but I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere and I was ushered out. I went over to the dispersal, feeling a bit fed up with life, and on the way I met a couple of Australian pilots who’d been stuck in Algiers for ages and no one seemed to know what to do with them, there was no operational flying going on from there, they weren’t getting any flying in and they were getting right bolshie. So I took them with me into the dispersal office and chatted up the sergeant there and without mentioning the fact that I’d been to see the Station Commander, I merely said I’d come to pick up three additional aircraft. So, like a good lad, he produced three Spitfires, we piled our gear into each of them and without waiting to say a very long farewell, taxied out and went back to Souk-el-Arba. I thought we could do with the aircraft and we could certainly do with the additional pilots and Bob Oxspring was quite chuffed!
Enter, and exit, The Italian Air Force and a reflection on sweat.
In all the time I was in North Africa, we only ran across the Italian Air Force on one occasion and that was when we were doing a fighter sweep, as usual, towards Tunis and we came across a great batch of Italian bombers and even more 109s. Now, we did our best to get down to the bombers, but we were kept away by more and more 109s, but we did manage to see, whilst we were trying to avoid getting shot down that the bombers, instead of carrying straight on with whatever duty they were doing and bashing on to the target, they continued to fly round and round in circles, so that by the time we finished our dogfight, they’d scarpered back to wherever they’d come from, so we weren’t particularly impressed.
On 18th December we were told to escort some Bostons to bomb Mateur and I was flying number 3 to Chas, and Sollet, a fairly new sergeant as number 2, me as 3 and Sergeant Hussey as 4. Well just before we got to Mateur, Hussey called up and said his engine was rough and he was going back, so that left me as tail-end Charlie of the section. Anyway, we were turning right down sun and Chas and I looked up from the port side, where we were flying, and saw about 20+ 109s and 190s. Despite our shouts on the r/t the squadron continued to turn right, but there was no future in that for us, inasmuch as it would have presented our backs to this wad of enemy aircraft and consequently Chas and I broke left and pulled up into the down-coming enemy aircraft. Now young Sollet, as I said, was quite a new lad and we’d impressed upon him that if we ever got into trouble and he lost sight of any of us, the best thing he could do was not hang around but belt off home as fast as he could, weaving like mad. Anyway, as Chas and I pulled up we were going up into the sun, naturally, and I saw Chas get one 190 and I was pulling up to get closer to him and I must have gone up higher than I thought, or a worse angle, anyway, because the speed suddenly dropped off and I went into a spin. Now there was no future in trying to pull out and climb up again, because I’d have been a dead duck, so I continued spinning until I got close to the ground and then straightened off and started to belt for home, closely followed by two 109s.
Now the old engine wasn’t going too well, it was coughing and spluttering and not going as fast as I’d have liked it to go, so I got right down onto the deck and I was belting home as fast as possible, weaving like mad, in and out of valleys, frightening the life out of camels and odd bodies I passed over, still pursued by the 109s, who were taking odd potshots at me every now and again and all I could do was to keep turning the minute they came within range. Eventually after one of these turns, I managed to get a fairly good shot in at the leading 109 and he shot straight past me onto the deck and I thought by this time the other one would have cleared off, but he was a bit of a keen type and he went on chasing me all the way back to within a few miles of the aerodrome, he finally gave up, but he did manage to put seven bullet holes in the aircraft and when I finally landed at Souk-el-Arba, I had no ammunition, very little petrol and I was absolutely drenched in perspiration! Most of it, I must admit, due to heaving the aircraft about at low level, and doing all sorts of things that the Spit wasn’t meant to do and probably quite a percentage due to the fact that I was scared stiff. But anyway, I got back alright.
It’s one thing to fight on fairly even terms, but when you have no ammunition and you were having a job keeping the engine going, it does give you food for thought. I spoke to the groundcrew afterwards and they showed me one of the petrol filters which was half full of dust and muck and what have you, so I’m not surprised I had trouble with the aircraft. The funny thing was that we told Sollet to go back if he got lost, which he did, but he hadn’t realised that we were supposed to go down on the deck and weave like mad. He’d climbed up with us to start with, into the sun, and then lost sight of everybody, which wasn’t unusual, so doing as he was told, he came home. He told me he flew back at 5000’, straight and level, no weaving, just looking at the countryside and he arrived at Souk-el-Arba without any damage at all, and yet Chas and I, who by this time were, I must say, very experienced, were fighting like maniacs and getting shot to pieces – a strange old life.
Tom, many thanks for posting the pictures, they've come out really well, far better than the actual piccies themselves that I remember! If you look carefully you can see that they are two different Spits, One named Connie in capitals, and one in upper and lower case. Before and after the wing-wobbling . . . . . !!
Last edited by johnfairr; 4th Jan 2010 at 14:05.