It will be dogfight, dogfight and dogfight – that's all that matters
Post no. 8 from the memoirs of Tempest pilot Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF
We reached England in January 1943, and were taken to Peterborough for advanced training on the Miles Master under our browned-off instructors. It was tedious, slow and boring, but after a riotous week's leave we were on the train from London to 55 Operational Training Unit at Annan near Carlisle – and ahead waited the mighty Hawker Hurricane, dated now but proven in battle. Rugged and reliable, it had been the frontline aircraft in the Battle of France and the Battle of Britain. How many Luftwaffe aircraft fell in combat to this aircraft? In the Battle of Britain, many more than fell to the much-vaunted Spitfire.
The air north of London was clear, and the visibility improved by at least 50 miles. I felt elated, excited and impatient to arrive. At last I would feel like a fighter pilot. I would be in a single-seater. Wow, maybe an aircraft I would fly had been in battle, maybe a famous ace had roared around in it, perhaps even Douglas Bader?
The train stopped and an RAF truck was waiting to take us to our OTU at Annan on the shores of the Solway Firth. We had a meal in the Mess, and liked it. We lived in nissen huts a mile or so from the airfield and rode there on pushbikes. In a matter of days we would have our first solo in a single-seater!
Our flight commander was a Welshman called Gus Davies, and we were assembled in the dispersal to meet him. He was tall, athletic and dark, with a small 'Clark Gable' moustache, and on his right breast was the small silver Maltese Cross given to those who defended the beleaguered island. Calm and confident, he looked around smiling at us all. How I admired him and longed for the experiences that he had survived.
“I'm Gus Davies, just call me Gus. In my hand I'm holding the manual of instruction you are supposed to receive from us here in A Flight. It's a book of bull**** dreamed up by those who have never fired a gun in anger.” He paused. “I'm going to teach you how to live high in the dangerous skies where you will meet the Hun. You won't learn that by spending hours practising precautionary landings. As soon as you can fly this aircraft with confidence it will be dogfight, dogfight and dogfight – that's all that matters”.
Days passed; my first solo was well behind me and I was starting to dogfight with the other pilots on my course. Gus flew with us, always watching. His great friend and fellow instructor, a Rhodesian called Scottie, was also always in the air, never missing a trick. Quiet words of encouragement and gentle helpful hints were all we received at this stage. I was totally sure they wanted me to pass and make it to a squadron, and my confidence soared.