COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

COMBAT AND COMPETITION
But before we turned our attention to the roads there was
something else. The Wingco's voice sounded in my ears:
"Bigshot going down now - enemy gun position."
As I followed, searching the ground ahead, bare earth showed
faintly through camouflage netting, revealing the telltale outlines of
newly dug weapon pits close to the bottom of a reverse slope. 88s
probably, part of some hastily assembled battle group, ready to fight
it out to the bitter end defending the flanks of the retreat. A dangerous
trap set to catch the advancing Canadians as they topped the crest
ahead. But lack of time had prevented adequate concealment and, in
revealing their position, the Huns had given us an opportunity to hit
them first.
Cannon smoke trailed back suddenly from the Wingco's Typhoon
and his first burst ripped viciously through one of the crudely
camouflaged emplacements.
No time to take in more as I opened fire on another, seeing the
flash of exploding shells in its shadowy depths, followed by a burst of
flame. Back on the stick, and a gun barrel, long as a telegraph pole,
slid into the glowing arc of the reflector sight. The cannons thumped
again. A fleeting impression of crouching, stumbling figures engulfed
in a carpet of firecrackers - then up and away.
As we swung hard to port the flak came up, late and inaccurate.
Moments later we caught a half track, accompanied by a large lorry,
skulking along the edge of a wood and both erupted in flames. There
seemed to be ambulances every where, threading carefully amongst the
wreckage on the roads. All were plastered with huge red crosses.
Difficult to believe that every one was genuine. But we left them
alone. There were plenty of other targets.
A couple of days later 193 Squadron went visiting on the ground.
Released from ops for 24 hours we scrounged a 15 cwt truck and
headed south. The roads were almost empty and we made good time,
stopping only to check our way in the middle of a small village.
Or rather it had once been a small village. Now, like so many
others, it was just an open cross roads, surrounded by shattered houses
and piles of rubble. Here and there an odd balk of burnt timber, a
broken picture frame, a dirty remnant of curtain - all that remained
of a small community which had been caught in the whirlwind of
destruction. Yet not quite all. The sound of drunken song, and before
we could locate its source a swaying figure emerged from the ruins and
came reeling towards us. This survivor, gently and happily inebriated,
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