Just watch my arse and make sure we don't get bounced by cunning little Huns!
Post no. 11 from the memoirs of Tempest pilot Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF
THE NAPIER Sabre engine in my Typhoon roared as I watched “Woe” Wilson sitting in the other kite. He signalled to me, released his brakes and started to move forward from the dispersal. As he taxied to the perimeter track his speed increased and he moved quickly towards the western end of the airfield. Feeling tense but more than ready to do the job in hand, I followed.
It all began on a cold, grey winter morning. Low clouds swept across the airfield and the pilots sat around the stoves in the dispersals, smoking, playing cards and waiting. A quarter of an hour earlier I had been sitting with them when the flight commander, Frank Murphy, walked in. “Wilson, take Stafford and carry out a patrol along the French coast from Boulogne to Dieppe. Some Spits went out on a rhubarb a while ago and they should be leaving France soon. You provide a bit of support in case they are intercepted. Have a look at the harbours as you go down the coast for anything unusual in the offing”. (A rhubarb was an offensive fighter patrol designed to draw the Luftwaffe into battle.)
Frank looked at me. “Ready for your first show, Staff?” “Yes sir,” I answered, my excitement rising rapidly. On operations at last! This was the culmination of all the training, all the waiting, all the hoping for acceptance, all the fear of rejection. Back from this, and I would be an operational pilot. Woe had been on the squadron for some time and had shown me consideration and friendship since my arrival a month or so earlier. I was glad I was going with him; Frank Murphy was a most able and astute leader, and he probably knew I would be comfortable and well looked after with Woe.
We picked up our Mae Wests and our parachutes, then walked out to the aircraft. “Keep up with me Staff”, he said. “Don't lag or stuff around, I'll be busy enough without looking after you.” I nodded and asked if he had any particular instructions. “Yes. Remember you're here to make sure we don't get bounced by some cunning Huns in their dangerous little Focke-Wulfs or 109s … Just watch my arse”. We walked on in silence, each deep in his own thoughts.
The green light flashed from the control tower and we moved onto the runway, turning into the wind. Woe looked across, his face obscured by his oxygen mask, and gave me the thumbs-up. He turned his head back and I saw him opening up, so I did the same. Side by side we thundered down the runway with breathtaking acceleration. Smoothly we left the ground, raised our undercarts, and climbed into that overcast, threatening sky. I throttled back to stay with Woe and checked my airspeed, 190 mph, and we were climbing steadily. Tangmere disappeared into the gloom behind us as we scuttled across the countryside.
We crossed the English coast and swiftly dropped until we were just above the waves, beneath enemy radar. We went into cruise at 3700 rpm, +4.5 boost, and Woe set course for France. I scanned the sky above and behind, watching, always watching. It seemed no time until Woe's voice was in my headphones: “OK, Music Red 2” and we climbed to just below cloud base, with the enemy coast ahead.