Old comrades
On one effort, over a Dodecanese airfield, our Flight Commander, Squadron Leader Barry Atkinson, claimed to have aimed his aircraft and fired his guns at a large party of soldiers, headed by an officer who, Barry said, was wearing an Iron Cross, and who pointed with a revolver at the aircraft before being blown apart (that's how low we used to fly on our raids). Such was the amazing intelligence network of the Germans, that not very long afterwards, we heard that a rebuttal had been made by them, and published in English newspapers, that there was no German officer on the airfield at that date who was entitled to wear the Iron Cross!
During the same raid, my cockpit canopy was struck on the right side by a bullet, or a piece of shrapnel, that tore a large hole in the perspex, and struck my right arm with great force - not enough to break the skin, but sufficient to bruise my arm and make it feel sore for some days. On landing, we found damage also to the starboard wing, probably caused by shrapnel from a bomb burst on the airfield.
Another "false alarm" for me was caused while attacking enemy shipping in the same area, when I dived down on an armed vessel, guns blazing, and staring with awe at the tracer bullets coming towards me, and suddenly found that my "ring-sight" - a reflected circle with target centre seen above the firing button - had disappeared. At the same time, I felt an intense burning sensation on my right thigh, just above the knee. (I was wearing khaki shorts and shirt). A couple of seconds was enough for me to find that I had not been struck by enemy bullets, but was suffering from the effects of a very hot electric bulb, that had dropped out of the bottom of the ringsight reflector, and was resting uncomfortably at the end of its short piece of flex onto my leg.
One not-so-clever incident was nearly serious for me and my observer. We were on one of those long return trips across the Med, described above, and escorting a Yankee squadron flying North American "Mitchell" light bombers (B25's). We had attacked an island airfield, north of Crete, with the Mitchells providing the bombing, and we the fighter escort. Alleviating the never-ending flight over the wave-tops (twenty to fifty feet, as usual) I closed in on the Mitchell I was escorting, and did some formation work.
A crewman appeared in a mid-fuselage gun-window, and beckoned me. Showing off somewhat, I got closer, tucking my right wing in behind the left wing of the bigger aircraft. Beaming, the crewman again beckoned me, appearing quite friendly. I flew in as close as I dared, only a few feet away. The crewmans head disappeared temporarily, and then suddenly reappeared, and he hurled at me a long metal biscuit tin, which I had time to recognise as one of the American issue.
I took violent evasive action as I saw the tin whistle past my starboard propellor. What it might have done to my engine and the aircraft, with consequent effects to me and Bob, made me shudder. And that was from one of our Allies!
Whilst based at the airfield near Benghazi, I was recommended for a Commission. I was then a Flight Sergeant, nearly a year on the Squadron, and very seasoned. On 27th October 1943, wearing my cleanest khaki, shoes polished, stepping carefully over the worst of the claggy puddles caused the previous night by an unusual rainstorm, I made my way to the desert caravan Headquarters of the Air Officer Commanding 201 Group. I had a very pleasant interview with him (name entirely unknown to me after this long time) and went away, confident that I had "put up a good show".
At this time, Bob Pritchard and I had spent well over 240 hours on operational flights, and were looking forward to a rest. We anticipated going home to England, and enjoying some leave before starting a second tour of operations. Bob had been commissioned some months before, while we were at Misurata, and was then a Pilot Officer.