The Battle of Britain Five Months That Changed History, May—October 1940 by James Holland (z-lib.org).epub

feet wide – but even for a man of decent height and build like David it did
not feel cramped: he could move his arms easily enough, while his feet
rested comfortably on the pale green metal pedals. The smell was
distinctive – as it was in all aircraft; a mixture of oil, metal, hydraulic fluid,
sweat, rubber and fuel. Not unpleasant at all; reassuring, rather.
Elevator set, rudder fully pushed to the right. Flaps up, artificial horizon
set. With his left hand, David set the throttle next to his knee to the start-up
position, switched on the radio button and then, with his right hand, turned
the engine start isolation switch to ‘on’. He unscrewed the priming plunger
locknut and began priming the engine. Magneto switches on. Fuel selector
on. Glancing out, he saw the groundcrew, then he leaned forward slightly to
the bottom centre of the panel and with the index and middle fingers of his
right hand simultaneously pressed the engine start and booster coil buttons.
As the engine began to turn he vigorously worked the priming pump until,
after a few seconds, and with a lick of flame and a belch of smoke from the
exhaust stubs, the mighty Merlin roared into life. He carried out his
magneto checks, then gave a nod to the groundcrew, who now pulled the
chocks clear. A voice from control – he was clear to roll.
The noise was incredible. The airframe was shaking, the engine
growling angrily, so that even though the sound was muffled by his tightly
fitting flying helmet and earpieces, it was still a throbbing roar. In front of
him, blocking his forward view entirely, was the engine cowling, pointing
imperiously skywards, the propeller a faint whirr. Glancing out, he saw the
groundcrew unplug the lead from the accumulator trolley and pull it clear.
Then hearing the static-distorted voice of the ground controller give him the
all-clear, he acknowledged, released the brakes and felt the Spitfire roll
forward.
Zig-zagging slowly so that he could see what was ahead of him, he
successfully manoeuvred the beast to the end of the grass runway and then
paused one more time to check that everything was OK. Engine
temperature was already 100 degrees – it had risen alarmingly quickly. He
glanced again at the dials, tightened the primer locknut, and then opened the
throttle.
The effect took his breath away. The engine powered up with a smooth
roar and the Spitfire leapt forward like a bullet, the fuselage almost trying to
twist from the huge torque from the Merlin. Easing the stick forward
slightly as he’d been told to do, he felt the fuselage rise and the cowling