COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

CHAPTER FIVE WINTER IN FLANDERS
over their unpopular Tiffies as they started re-equipping with Spitfire
XIVs. In point of fact his Wing would now be able to fly its own
photographic sorties and he would get the results quicker than before.
Gerry Eaton, a flight commander with 257, and I were the guinea
pigs. Loaned from our squadrons, as and when required, to fly
unescorted missions. Our FR5 Typhoons carried three F24 cameras,
one oblique and two vertical, mounted in the starboard inner gun bay.
We planned to use the vertical pair only, making our target runs at
about 4,000ft.
My first sortie, on 15th Army HQ at Dordrecht, flown several
hours after the action, was abandoned due to low cloud and 35 Wing
got in first on the following day. The Army Commander, Von Busch,
was lucky to be away at the time as the target was well and truly
pranged. The Dutch Resistance responded quickly with a list of
casualties, and the date and place of the military funeral..... and would
the Wing please oblige with another attack to finish off those who had
escaped!
Going in immediately after an attack on a heavily defended target,
which soon became standard practice, was character forming to say the
least. Better to be part of a squadron - bombs and cannon in hot blood
- than sweating it out alone waiting to plunge into a hornet's nest. Or
was it?
Photo reconnaissance offered a unique challenge. That of bringing
back the first real evidence of success or failure and simultaneously,
not to say unavoidably, providing a measure by which the quality of
your own sortie might be judged. Not surprisingly it exerted a
powerful attraction.
Thoughts to encourage the loner in photo 'M', sitting high above
Rotterdam, looking down on the perfection of a late autumn day. The
outlines of the city shimmering softly through the haze. Black shell
bursts stained the sky. The squadrons moved into echelon and
plummeted earthwards. Light flak veiled the target merging into a
carpet of destruction - and the diving aircraft became vague shadows
darting through layers of murk and smoke.
Brief words of command, leaders reforming their squadrons, and
then silence on the radio. The storm of flak died away. A pall of dust
hung over the target area. My time had come.
The 88s opened up immediately, a muffled thud shook the aircraft,
and oil began to smear the screen. It spread rapidly, still thin, but
enough to obscure the view. The cockpit filled with fumes and the
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