COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

CHAPTER FOUR TYPHOON
Ground crews swarmed over the surrounding aircraft preparing
them for the next sortie. Most of them were stripped to the waist,
tanned and fit as never before - thanks to Adolf Hitler - although they
might have put it differently! Some were draped with belts of 20mm
ammunition, others, working under the wings, were fitting drop tanks.
Today, again, there would be no bombs.
In the background, where Stan Carr's 'office' and 'workshops' were
located in a cluster of camouflaged tents, a chorehorse chugged softly
away - pleasantly soporific in the warm sunshine.
Stan and his boys. They never let us down. Highly skilled,
improvisers and scroungers par excellence, they kept our aircraft
serviceable under the most daunting conditions. Up to every legitimate
demand we put upon them and, as I was to discover in the months
ahead, a few more besides.
Senior NCOs like Stan Carr were the backbone of the Service. Ex
Desert Air Force. Still in his early thirties. Behind a deceptively
relaxed exterior Stan possessed an iron determination, and he ran his
crew like a veteran. To us he was always relaxed, polite and helpful.
Nothing was too much trouble. Stan and Joe Hickey, his right hand
man, identified totally with the Squadron, and we with them. 6193
Servicing Echelon was 193 Squadron, whatever officialdom might say 7 ,
and they supported us magnificently.
The muffled crack of a Coffman starter on the far side of the
airfield was a reminder of more urgent matters. Careful strokes on the
cylinder pump. Press the starter and booster coil buttons. The engine
coughed and burst into life. The two Typhoons taxied out to meet at
the runway threshold, clattered onto the PSP tracking, and took off
together in a gathering storm of dust.
We turned east, crossing the twin waterways of the river Orne and
the Caen canal, catching a glimpse of Liseaux Abbey in the distance
- brilliant white - almost luminous. A dramatic outline far removed
from the ugly scenes of devastation which lay ahead. For the enemy
had been forced to move in daylight and was paying the price.
The roads leading across the open plain were littered and blocked
with wrecked and burning transport. Columns of smoke hung in the
summer sky. In the midst of all this carnage more vehicles, of every
sort and description, motorised and horsedrawn, continued to straggle
out from the hilly countryside to the south east. These were the
survivors, who had fought their way out of the trap at Falaise, only to
face annihilation from the air on their final dash to the Seine.
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