bentley priory - Spink

THE BENTLEY PRIORY BATTLE OF BRITAIN TRUST APPEAL CHARITY AUCTION
The ever-increasing score
be attributed to the scorn he felt for the idea of keeping a
precise tally. ‘Of course I used up a lot of ammunition on
109s in the Battle of Britain - who didn’t - but I don’t
remember claiming many kills’, he wrote. ‘In my experience
there was usually too much going on upstairs to spend time
following victims down to the ground for confirmation of a
kill.’ (ibid)
On the 15th October Kingcome’s part in the Battle of Britain
was ended by an Me Bf 109, ‘We were scrambled from
Biggin Hill, with myself leading 92 Squadron. We
successfully intercepted the raiders over Maidstone in mid-
Kent, broke up their formation and turned them back after a
fairly brisk encounter. It was a run of the mill operation, and
since it had used up all of my ammunition I thought I would
head for home. I looked around and found myself alone in
the skies, apart from three Spitfires in the far distance... It was
around noon, and the October day, as I have said, was
glorious. I could see Biggin Hill in the distance, and began to
think of my uneaten breakfast. This I had missed as a result
of the German’s sadistic sense of humour, which led them to
time raids to coincide with meals... I put my nose down to
head straight for home... then thought I might as well kill
two birds with one brick and decided to throttle back and
practice a ‘dead stick’ forced landing; that is to say one with
a simulated engine failure.
It was breathtakingly stupid behaviour... The skies of Kent
were at all times a hostile environment, whatever the illusion
of emptiness, yet here was I, as operationally experienced as
anyone, casually putting at risk my aircraft and my life... I had
grown blasé... forgetting the fighter pilot’s golden rule to
watch his tail however safe he thought he might be... I was
sailing in a dream when my reveries were rudely haltered by
an almighty thump to the back of the right leg... Worse was
to follow: a rattling clatter as if someone were violently
shaking a giant bucket full of pebbles close to my ear. Still it
took me a further moment or two to realise that this sound
was the jarring impact of bullets striking in and around my
cockpit. Glancing down at my leg, I saw blood welling out of
the top of my flying-boot... The effect was devastating: one
minute relaxed and carefree, in total control with nothing
more dramatic in mind than a simulated forced landing and
the day’s lunch menu; the next, inhabiting a doomed aircraft
at 20,000ft losing blood at a rate that suggested
consciousness might slip away at any moment with death
following within minutes... I therefore decided to
compromise, get rid of the canopy, undo the straps and give
the stick an almighty shove forward. With luck I would then
be catapulted out by centrifugal force. The trick might well
have worked, but I never got as far as testing it. No sooner
had I undone the straps than I was plucked violently out of
the cockpit as if by a giant hand, hurled into a furious
maelstrom of wind and storm and raging elements that
whirled me head over heels, arms and legs windmilling
uncontrollably, helpless as a ragdoll in a clamouring
hurricane.
The brutal blast of air assaulted me with all the solid physical
force of a jackhammer, blacking my eyes and bruising my face
with a ferocity of which I had never dreamed air to be
capable... The ground, from which a short time before I
seemed to be irrevocably separated, now rushed up to meet
me. My wounded leg meant I landed heavily, permanently
damaging a disc in my back before sprawling over and over,
the breath knocked out of me.’ (ibid)
Kingcome was rushed to the Royal Naval Hospital at
Chatham, and after another ‘botched’ service operation he
managed to get himself transferred to Orpington Hospital; at
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