COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

COMBAT AND COMPETITION
curtain of oil grew darker.
On instruments now. Fear caught at me and I strove to fight it
down..... Hold the dive!..... Hold it!..... You must hold it!..... Level out
and switch the cameras on!.....
By now I was down to 2,500 feet - rocketing blind across the
centre of Rotterdam - at least the flak was invisible!
The return trip was agonizing. Trying to spare the engine resulted
in a suicidally slow passage across the docks and I expected a direct hit
at any moment. Winding the canopy open was no help at all. An
alarming close up of the Dordrecht bridges, heavily guarded by flak
guns, frightened me out of my skin and I was deluged with hot oil.
After what seemed an age I reached friendly territory and called
'Longbow' 6 to alert the nearest airfield, Gilze-Rijen, to my
predicament.
Oil continued to flood over the windscreen obscuring my goggles
and, when I raised them, stinging my eyes. Time to start the approach,
staying high in case the engine failed, and slightly offset to provide a
view of sorts until the last possible moment. The temperatures were
almost off the clock and the oil pressure falling rapidly.....
Undercarriage..... Flaps..... Into the final turn.....
It was a surprisingly good landing which came to a shuddering halt
alongside a group of airmen and a Coles crane. Difficult to know who
was the more taken aback. But reaction was beginning to set in and I
shouted across to them, "You can take it away!" The effect was rather
spoilt when I slipped on the oily wing root, and ended up in a heap on
the runway, fortunately without further damage.
Photo 'M' had been hit in the spinner, which was like a colander,
and the constant speed mechanism had been badly damaged. The
fuselage looked as if it had been painted glossy black. It was a miracle
that the engine had kept going.
In the mess after a late lunch, still red eyed and stinking of oil,
David Hurford, Nobby Clarke and others dropped by to take coffee.
It was good to be amongst the BFs again. Even if there was more than
the usual leg pulling, about usurping their role, that it served me right
for fiddling my way on to Typhoons, and so on.
The dance at Deurne that evening was a great success, thanks to
Jimmy Simpson. A set of Glen Miller records, which he had purloined
from Heaven knows where, had been turned into musical scores by the
Belgian orchestra. So we drank and danced the night away to the best
of 'Big Band' sounds. Jimmy had also, perhaps unwisely, offered to
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