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Valentines Day 1943
Extract from ‘Rendezvous with Fate’ by Raymond Lallemand On February 14, 1943, it was ‘A’ Flight’s turn to come to readiness, as usual, at dawn. The night before we had been on the spree because the weather forecast was bad and – because we wanted to – we believed it. After all his previous false prophesies the met. officer, we said, must for once be right. Unfortunately, on poking our noses outdoors, we were greeted by perfect flying weather – and swore loudly at our gullibility. The daily privilege of the combat warrior, a boiled egg (others were rationed to one a month), was swallowed like a pill of presage, and as we went out there was George the barman sweeping up the debris of the previous night before going up to call the station commander. At dispersal the order of battle was already chalked up. Babe Haddon and Johnny Wiseman as Red section, would be the first, followed by Polish Tony Polek and me, as Yellow. The job was a bit different from usual: to protect some motor torpedo boats which had got into difficulties quite near the French coast. Under cover of night they had been harassing the enemy ports, but one had been damaged and could not move. Two others tried to take it in tow, but as dawn broke the unhappy convoy was not only within range of the coastal batteries of Cape Gris Nez, but a sitting target for the Luftwaffe – unless we helped. The idea was that Babe and Johnny should act as close air support, while Polek and I patrolled in the vicinity, ready to intercept at a moment’s notice. Unfortunately, just as the convoy struggled out of range of the guns, the towing cable parted. While Babe and Johnny began circling indefatigably over the stationary boats, Tony and I started patrolling in mid-Channel between Dover and Dungeness. Although the boats were quite close I failed to spot them in the half-light, but I informed Red section of our presence. We were turning for Dungeness without quite knowing where our colleagues were when the controller called me. I recognised the clear, calm voice of that veteran of the Biggin ops. Room, Bill Igoe. He directed me nearer to the convoy, saying he had lost touch with Red section. Also calling Babe without success, I wondered what had happened. The visibility was improving and we approached with circumspection, knowing of old how quick on the trigger the Navy habitually was. We still did not know quite where they were, so to avoid arriving suddenly in hostile fashion, I decided to make landfall at Calais and reach Cape Gris-Nez from the east. In this way we would have the sun behind us and be able to see better. Presently a group of boats came into view a few miles away, rocking helplessly on the waves. Still not certain of their identity or intentions we continued our cautious approach – which seemed quite justified when a salvo of cannon greeted our arrival. So like distrustful crows we kept our distance. Then we heard Bill Igoe telling us to remain nearby, but to patrol at wave-level between Calais and Boulogne rather than circle the boats. The latter manoeuvre would deprive us of freedom of action and make us easy prey for enemy aircraft. After ten minutes of shuttling back and forth we were heading once more from Calais to Gris-Nez when I hear Tony’s voice trying to say something. He spoke English with difficulty and there was quite a pause before he uttered hoarsely: “Four bandits twelve o’clock!” I had spotted them, too, at the moment I heard his transmitter click. They were four Focke-Wulfs in square formation, tearing towards the boats just over the wave-tops for a flank attack. I noticed they wore night camouflage, which the Germans cold spray on in a few minutes. Calling “Tally-Ho!” I lead Tony Polek into the attack, veering right to get into a position to fire. Concentrating on their own attack, the 190s are unaware of our presence, and our powerful Typhoons rapidly close the distance that separates us. I switch on my reflector-sight, control its adjustment, then grab the selector-switch of my camera-gun. There is no answering noise when I press the button; the camera doesn’t work – too bad! As we draw nearer we each have a target in front of us, and I measure the range in the reflector-sight. Just as it closes to six hundred yards the sea around the enemy is splattered with explosions. It is Tony firing too soon and ruining the surprise. My fault; I have forgotten it is his first combat, and like every excited tenderfoot he has made the old mistake. I should have warned him. At once the 190s break in opposite directions, and instead of disposing of the hind pair and then engaging in equal combat with the other, we are now in a dangerous mess. The ensuing combat – two versus four – indeed waxes hotly. Fortunately there is cloud, and it may save us. The thing to do is to act quickly, taking advantage of the enemy’s momentary disorganisation. So up we go in a climbing turn in pursuit of No. 4. But this German seems a master pilot, and strive though I may I just can’t get his aircrafts image in my gunsight. Up through the clouds, one behind the other, and when we emerge I am dazzled by the sun. The Focke-Wulf hesitates, then continues its upward soaring, and despite full boost I am lagging dangerously. If he gains much more distance I shall have to break off before it is too late…perhaps it is already. But suddenly the enemy plane, turning on its back, dives down towards the clouds several thousand feet lower, and I gasp a sigh of relief. What a clot! There he was mastering me in the climb, and he didn’t know it. So after him again, hoping not to catch him too quickly just as he enters cloud. But down below there is no sign of him. Has he turned the tables by re-ascending? Back with my stick and once more I am up through the clouds like a lightning streak. Nothing there either – even after a 360-degree turn. It looks like the 190s want to get rid of us. But where is Tony? Down through the clouds again, searching desperately for something. And at last I see three aircraft break cloud: a Typhoon sandwiched between two Fw 190s, the second firing at Tony, and Tony firing at the first. As they bank to starboard in Indian file just ahead of me, Tony’s death is a few seconds away, but with my own speed it is all I can do to avoid a collision. Clenched at the controls I struggle to join battle, trying to dictate my movements with my brain. But my muscles don’t respond: instinct controls the emergency. My Typhoon is like a bolting horse, with me crouched in its withers. My thumb is on the firing button as I hurtle at right-angles towards the mixed procession, and the great black crosses of the enemy planes loom before my eyes like a bank into which I am bound to crash. And when I fire it is – contrary to all nature – with Tony in my gunsight. I see tracer shells. The deflection is terrific, and I would have given far more but for my fear of hitting Tony. The 190 is still firing at him, and better, I think, that he should be destroyed by the enemy than by me. But I am still firing too: just for two seconds before jerking the stick to avoid collision. But is it enough? As I break away the wing of the 190 explodes, and as it falls seaward Polek is at last safe. Banking to port I see it swallowed up, leaving no trace but a swirl of water. Levelling out I look for the other planes, scouring the sea, the sky, the horizon. Above the clouds there is nothing either. What can have happened to them all? Time to rejoin the boats and call my No. 2. There they are still, but to stay alone in this hostile region is stupid. I am about to go home when Tony suddenly reappears and stations himself on my right wing as if had happened. We resume our promenade between Calais and Boulogne. That is what we are there for, even though we are now low in petrol and ammo. Polek was never a very chatty fellow – today his output has been four words. A dissatisfied sort of type, always thirsting for action and driven by a kind of despair into the most crazy enterprises and tricky situations. He spent his leave aboard Polish MTB’s, just to fight with them for a change. Meanwhile our own MTB’s seem to have recognised us, and we fly a bit closer. Not too close, for I know that one sailor has only to fire his gun, even by mistake, and every other gun on every boat will join in like a contagion and we will have had it. Ten minutes go by and it is time control relieved us. One more round trip, Boulogne – Calais – Boulogne, and surely they will. We are just making our final turn off Boulogne when I hear a distinct but very feeble voice uttering my call-sign: “Beauty Yellow leader, bandits approaching you from east.” It is Bill Igoe again. I scan the coast two miles away, wondering whether perhaps our turn has confused him and made him plot us as hostiles, but dutifully resume the turn to put us in a better tactical position. It is just as well, for at once I see four Focke-Wulf 190’s to port, brushing the cliffs and dashing towards us. They have the yellow noses of the famous Richtofen group. Throttling back, I cry “Tally-Ho!” to warn Polek and the controller, and as my speed drops I turn more tightly, adjusting the propeller to fine pitch. Then, pushing the selector till I have ten degrees of flap, I give full gas and bank to the maximum. My mind darts back to the previous combat and how the German fighters broke up, and into the microphone I shout “SCRAMBLE!” They will be listening at dispersal and I know that Jean de Selys and Roy Payne will take off at once. In fact, as the twisting dog-fight continues and we gain on the 190’s, I already hear Jean’s airborne voice calling me. Will the 190’s separate and increase our disadvantage? It is not easy for two pilots to keep an eye on four enemies. I call Jean back, first in English, then desperately in French: “Jean, ŕ Gris-Nez, nom de Dieu!” Happily at this moment I sense that the German No. 3 is feeling uncomfortable. In another half-turn, thanks to the manoeuvrability of my Typhoon, I shall have the chance to throw some lead at him. But he knows that too, and a second later quits the formation at a tangent – very annoying, for I can do nothing about it. Or can I? Tilting my aircraft I touch the firing button for a split second with a quite ludicrous amount of deflection, and at once resume my place in the turning circle, where my manoeuvre as already put me behind. The 190 is now hidden by the right wing of my banking Typhoon, but with luck I may have frightened it away. And then, just behind the trailing edge, there comes into view a flaming torch which a second later is doused forever in the sea. I am so amazed that I cry out into the radio: “Heavens, Did you see that! And Tony’s voice replies: “Yes…yes.” The combat continues, now two versus three, and the Focke-Wulfs separate. I go after the leader, and Tony engages No. 2. No. 4 seems to have had enough and, leaving his companions in the lurch, disappears from view. But the leader is no chicken, and our fight is hard, with condensation trails breaking from our wing-tips. I lose a little ground each time we climb, then regain it on the turns and the dives. Once, when we pull out, I obtain a close-up of the German pilot sitting in his cockpit and looking back, his neck twisting from his yellow Mae West. I can even distinguish his scarf, helmet and goggles, even his gloved right hand on the stick, and the instruments in front of him. And the poor bastard is looking at me! Suddenly his aircraft does a violent pirouette, something like a flick roll, which ends in front of me with the machine on its back. Its underside is the colour of a ducks egg, and the great crosses are like an armorial shield painted on the sea. A short burst of fire, and black smoke appears in its slip-stream. At five hundred feet we are still plunging towards the water, and it is high time to pull out, for I am far lower than I thought. Gently, though, or I shall also flick. The Typhoon just brushes the waves…I have made it! The 190 has disappeared completely, but on the horizon another dives into the sea on fire – that must be Tony’s victim. Surely the hungry sea must be satisfied today! But now Jean and Roy have arrived. Spotting the boats they veer off towards Calais. Scarcely have they completed their turn there when they are attacked by three more 190’s. Fortunately, these open fire too soon, and using their superior manoeuvrability to reverse the situation, Jean and Roy end the combat by each shooting one down – Jean from head-on and not without some damage to his own aircraft. That makes seven…five confirmed and two probables. It is the Typhoons day! And the boats have got safely to port. Finding Tony again I return with him to base, happy to see the English coast again. But on landing at Manston there is bad news…Babe and Johnny have been shot down. Some weeks alter in a Ramsgate bar I heard the sad story from an eye-witness: the captain of the damaged MTB. He said that soon after the Typhoons started circling the boats in Indian file, the sailors saw two Focke-Wulf 190’s loom up at sea level. Unable to warn our friends they watched one of them shoot down both Typhoons in quick succession – one folding up like a book, the other plunging into the sea in flames, without either knowing what hit them. Breakfast always stopped promptly at 9am, and by the time we had passed through Ziegly’s confessional we had missed it. So all Tony and I could do was to wait hungrily in the mess till the first sign of lunch at 1145. By then we really needed something, and first we were served with steaming soup. The first spoonfuls went down all right, but at the fourth we had to stop and send it back: there seemed to be an obstruction between gullet and stomach. Tony consulted the menu…Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and Brussels sprouts. Yes, that would do. But after the first mouthfuls of this the same thing happened…it seemed our appetite was mental, while our stomachs, still contracted by the stress of combat, refused to function. In the end all we could take was a large glass of milk. That evening on the 9 o’clock news was the following announcement: “In the course of defensive patrols over the English Channel, Typhoons of Fighter Command destroyed five Focke-Wulf 190’s, the latest type of German fighter. Two of our pilots failed to return.”
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Copyright © 2002 609 (West Riding)
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