Jack has his first look at enemy territory
Post no. 12 from the memoirs of Tempest pilot Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF
THE FRENCH coast appeared as our Typhoons rose. I took a quick glance then swivelled my neck around, searching the sky above and behind Woe's rudder. We had almost reached the coastal sands when Woe called again: “Ninety degrees starboard, Red 2”.
We turned and started down the coast. At each port we swung in low over the roadstead and I would risk a quick glance at the shipping below and the harbour buildings, for it was all new to me. Then I would swiftly scan the sky that might hold half a dozen Fw190s looking for us, or the returning Spits. My pulse sped up at each new spot on the windshield or each new imagined shadow on the clouds. So we droned on towards Dieppe, intent on carrying out our instructions.
“Music aircraft, Kenway calling, are you receiving me, over?” “Music red one receiving you loud and clear”. “Return to base all Music aircraft, repeat return to base, Kenway out”. “Roger wilco out”, replied Woe. Then to me: “Spits must be home. Turning starboard 320 degrees”. Smoothly we turned around and started back across the cruel, indifferent, sullen, turbulent, all-devouring Channel that was the last resting place of so many warrior airmen. We flew back close to the clouds, ready to use them as refuge if a squadron of Huns appeared out of the mist with malice intended.
Woe watched his heading, I watched Woe's tail. His voice broke through the Typhoon's drone: “Turn on your IFF, Staff, England coming up”. I threw the Identification Friend or Foe switch, a necessity to protect us from our own flak and perhaps our own patrolling fighters. But there were no fighters in this weather, I thought.
The cloud base lowered and we crossed the English coast almost on the deck, slightly west of Brighton. Woe knew every inch of the coast, and soon we swung low over Chichester and the Tangmere runway came into sight. Echelon starboard, said Woe, and we roared along the downwind leg. We turned crosswind, lower undercarriage, green lights on. Flaps, and the Typhoon changed attitude. We approached at 130 mph, crossed the perimeter track, eased back on the sticks and dropped gently onto the runway like two feathers side by side.
Woe looked across at me and nodded; I felt that he was pleased. We kept a bit of throttle and sped down the runway towards our dispersal, slowing to walking pace as the ground crew came towards us and waved us into our parking places. As I shut down and wound back the hood the grinning mechanic was up on the wing to help me with the straps. Still smiling, he asked how my first op had gone. Grinning even wider, I replied: “Just great”. “Did you get a Hun?” he asked. “No such luck, I never even saw one”. He patted my shoulder. “You will”, he said. Woe was waiting for me and we walked together to our dispersal.“Good show, Staff”, he said, and I warmed at this unusual praise. I could not stop grinning.