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

The unexpected cloud had not prevented Siegfried Bethke from leading his
second Staffel over the Channel on a free hunt early that morning, joined by
the Gruppe adjutant, Oberleutnant Paul Temme. ‘Hurricanes near
Brighton,’ Siegfried noted later. ‘Oblt. Temme stayed there. Shot down?’
Paul had in fact been shot down, just as they were turning for home. Struck
from behind, bullets had hit his engine and radiator cooling system. With
his oil pressure rising, he had crash-landed, wheels up, in a cornfield within
sight of the hangars at Shoreham airfield.
Still in one piece, Paul released his harness and clambered out, only to
see a number of gunners from an ack-ack position guarding the airfield
running towards him, rifles in hand. Feeling a sudden inexplicable need to
urinate, he peed against the fuselage of his Messerschmitt, which seemed to
have a calming effect on his pursuers. Instead of rough handling him, the
gunners led him gently to the station commander at the airfield, who
greeted him in perfect German, ‘Oh, ein sehr früher Gast’ (‘a very early
guest’), and then asked Paul whether he was ready for some breakfast.
Although Paul had not, in fact, eaten anything that morning, he politely
declined the offer feeling it would not be right to eat from the enemy’s
table. However, when a steward arrived with ham, eggs, toast and tea, and
the station commander insisted he tuck in, Paul had a change of heart. After
all, he was feeling quite hungry. The CO at Shoreham was not really sure
what he was supposed to do with captured German airmen, so their having
finished breakfast, he sent for his car and had Paul taken to the Royal
Artillery in nearby Brighton. Taken to the mess, he found the gunners there
were busy eating breakfast and reading papers, and in no mood to be
hurried. Intrigued by their unexpected guest, they invited him to join them.
Settling down to his second plate of bacon and eggs, Paul admitted that he
had no idea there was such protocol between services.
That was as may be, but the gunners didn’t much want him either so
passed him back to the RAF, this time at Farnborough, nearly fifty miles
away. There he was briefly interrogated by an army officer before being
handed back to the RAF. ‘Take no notice of him,’ the RAF officer reassured
him, ‘he isn’t a pilot. And now, what about some breakfast?’ At this rate, a
surfeit of bacon and toast was beginning to seem more life-threatening than
being shot down by Hurricanes.