COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

CHAPTER SIX DYING REICH
spotted a flying boat low over the sea. Mike Bulleid as always was
quick off the mark. At full throttle - overtaking fast - an impossible
deflection shot and he hit it fair and square with his first burst. By the
time the rest of us got there the BV 138 was already doomed. We were
supposed to be credited with an eleventh share apiece but, without
question, it was another for Mike's bag of enemy aircraft. A fantastic
piece of shooting.
As we left the wreckage, and headed for home, an MTB appeared
zigzagging flat out. Perhaps it was on an air sea rescue mission, but the
thought never crossed our minds as our cannons tore it to shreds. The
Wingco's story about those poor devils at Belsen was there to spur us
on. There was no mercy for the enemy that day.
Fuel was running low so I reduced speed for maximum range, and
opened up the formation. The final part of the flight crossed an area
of flat and featureless countryside dotted with hundreds of small
woods. Difficult to know your exact position. There was a certain
amount of twitch on the wireless and we came straight in to Hustedt
without a circuit.
On the way home that evening we cruised into the setting sun, the
air was calm and still, the last of the cumulus fading away overhead.
It had been epic stuff. The chaps had done the Squadron proud.
Almost as if they realised that it might be the last time. As if they
intended to safeguard its reputation right to the end.
Around me was the very essence of 193. Ben Lenson, safely back
from his recent parachute descent. Jimmy Fishwick, his commission
just through after many months, and Bob Waldron. From 'B' Flight
there was Snowy Harrison supported by a formidable quartet - all of
them nudging the 200 sortie mark - Charlie Hall, Mike Bulleid, Eddie
Richardson sometime keeper of the Squadron diary, and Bunny Austin
recently returned from hisspellas VCP Controller. And there were the
new boys too. Mike Thexton, who had joined the Squadron when 257
was disbanded, and Allan Wyse flying like a veteran as my number
two.
A few words on the radio and they moved into tight line astern,
preparing for the let down and break. As they did so I caught a
fleeting glimpse of propeller discs, golden in the sunset, and was
possessed once more by that wonderful feeling. Flying on forever
above a fading, dying, landscape.
Less than twenty hours later, after more shipping strikes around
Lubeck Bay and Fehmarn Island, we had fired our last shots in anger.
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