COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

CHAPTER FIVE WINTER IN FLANDERS
flame mushroomed amongst the diving aircraft, only to be snuffed out
in an instant, leaving an ugly pall of smoke hanging in the air. A voice
said "Hap's bought it!" and at the same moment the smoke swirled and
faded - revealing a few unrecognisable bits of debris. They tumbled
lifelessly away, and disappeared for ever as we concentrated on the
target.
No one else was touched except the CO, who took the full force of
the explosion, as his number two blew up. His ailerons were almost
immovable and one undercarriage leg hung down uselessly, wrenched
and twisted out of line. Yet he got back to Antwerp, landing last of all.
The damaged leg collapsed and he slewed off the runway. His aircraft
was a write off.
Some days later I accompanied Jimmy Simpson to Ops, sneaking a
preview of the target, as he prepared to brief 'A' Flight for a low level
show. Neville Thomas climbed down from his van and joined us. He
looked decidedly angry and out of sorts, not at all his usual urbane
self, and muttered about the unspeakable bastards we were going to
attack.
Eventually it all came out. The Canadians had overrun an enemy
position, in the immediate vicinity of our target, and found the body
of one of their soldiers who had been captured on the previous day.
And then, barely able to contain his rage, Tommy looked at us and
said:
"Those filthy Huns had hung him over a fire and roasted him to
death."
For the first and almost the only time, as Jimmy headed the Jeep
along the peritrack, I felt hatred and loathing for the enemy troops
who were shortly to be at the receiving end of our guns. A feeling that
would not go away..... that got worse as I ran through the familiar
drills..... swamping all rational thought.....
Down below it looked just like the photograph. A pillbox
surrounded by a network of trenches - sodden, treeless, and low lying
- beside a narrow lake with the river beyond. A bleak and cheerless
place to die in agony.
We came in slowly. Eight Typhoons with sixteen one thousand
pound bombs. Hell bent on revenge. The pillbox filled our gunsights
- smothered in bursting shells. The first section was through. Bombs
gone and eleven seconds to go. Eight muddy explosions. And another
eight. A direct hit. Others cratering the spidery network of diggings.
We went back again and again. Ferocious, bloodthirsty, strafing runs.
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