by John Nichol
The moment of idyll fell away as he lined up to dive on the target, knowing that yet again his life could be decided in mere millimetres by the accuracy of a single AA gun below.
He also hated the Rimini bridge, which they had attacked before, as the flak around it was particularly intense. ‘We flew out through a clear sky, no cloud to hide our coming. North of Rimini I turned and led the way in. The black puffs burst all around us before we had even crossed the coast and the target was still four or five miles ahead. The temptation to swerve was almost overpowering. I felt naked and exposed and was sure that I was going to be hit. The target passed under my wing and I rolled over into a dive. Down through the black bursts, down heading into the carpet of white, where the 40mm shells came up in their myriads to meet me, down further into the streaking tracer of machine-gun fire. I dropped my bomb and kept on down – safer on the deck than climbing up again – and used the R/T to tell the others to do the same, everyone to make his own way back across the line. Just after I had transmitted there was a thudding explosion and my Spitfire juddered.’
Bloody hell!
Dundas felt a shudder of fear and the realisation that his foreboding had proved right. After years of luck in dodging bullets, his time had now come, as it had for the many friends he had lost.
A great hole had been ripped in his port wing, halfway between cockpit and wingtip. But somehow, despite the damage, his ‘faithful’ Spitfire kept on flying. ‘I held my course and speed, gaining height as soon as I had crossed the line.’
Dundas nursed the crippled Spitfire home, fearing that at any moment the wing could fail or the damage would make him plunge uncontrollably earthwards. Finally, the aerodrome came into view. He was committed to landing now, far too low to bail out. Gingerly he let down the undercarriage then very slowly eased down the flaps, his eyes constantly glancing at the port wing.
He lined the Spitfire up then descended, feeling a huge release of pressure as the wheels kissed the ground. He carefully applied the brakes, bringing the speed below 80mph. Suddenly there was a loud bang and the aircraft slewed round. A tyre puncture. There was nothing he could do but wait until it came to a halt. The Spitfire remained intact and Dundas climbed out, shaken but unscathed.
He went to the caravan he shared with the veteran fighter leader Brian Kingcome, who had invited round the equally illustrious Group Captain Wilfrid Duncan Smith, DSO and bar, DFC and bar and Spitfire ace with seventeen kills.
‘They both treated my adventure as a huge joke – quite rightly, too. But for once I was not feeling jokey. I told them to go to hell and lay down on my bunk and thought, Oh Christ, Oh Christ, I can’t go on like this.’
* * *
Ray Holmes, 1936
Ray Holmes had been in the war from its very start and now, having converted to reconnaissance Spitfires, hoped to be there at the finish. He justifiably thought he’d done his bit, particularly after ramming the Dornier heading towards Buckingham Palace in 1940.
In January 1945 he joined 541 Photo Reconnaissance Squadron at RAF Benson in Oxfordshire. Experienced pilots were needed to fly the long solo flights 500 miles behind enemy lines.4
‘Now’s your chance for a few gongs,’ his training officer had told him. Holmes was aware that at Benson a whole new manner of flying lay ahead. ‘I was now to become a lone ranger. A scout. A spy in the sky. I was to be taken to a briefing room, shown Top Secret maps, given highly classified information about a target and set to photograph it.’
With the bad weather of February and early March 1945 clearing, the squadron was put to work, sneaking deep into German territory. Within four days, four experienced pilots were lost either to enemy action or by being forced to ditch in the North Sea with little chance of rescue. Holmes could not help reflecting on the tragedy of their loss as the war was coming to a successful conclusion.
Flying day after day, the surviving pilots became fractious and tired.
‘The danger signs were showing in the Flight. Chaps were getting edgy. The trips were growing longer. Four or five hours was quite a spell up there alone, relying on a single engine and your own navigation while you play a game of cat and mouse with a ruthless enemy.’
Regardless of any fears, and the notion that the war might be entering the final stages, there was no respite for the Spitfire photo reconnaissance pilots. Holmes was given an overview of targets over Germany, prioritised by the colour of the pins on the map – submarine bases, airfields, railway yards and oil refineries. All targets for Bomber Command. All needed photographing.
Among them was the port of Hamburg, not photographed for three months. ‘The weather this winter has been bloody lousy and not one pilot who went in good weather came back,’ his squadron leader, Tim Fairhurst, said. ‘The Hun is fighting like hell to keep our recce planes away.’ Holmes felt irritated by the remark. Of course he bloody knew the enemy was fighting like hell. He lived it every day. And he did not need reminding that 541 Squadron had already lost three pilots on the Hamburg run alone. They were all friends and colleagues.
Fairhurst then told him the Met Office had an ‘unusual’ forecast. Cloud covered the skies over Germany all the way to Hamburg, but a freak temperature inversion from the Alps had created a circular clearance about twenty miles in diameter. ‘This pocket of clearance is moving north-west at 15mph,’ Fairhurst said. ‘Around midday Hamburg will bask in sunshine for at least half an hour.’
Holmes glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I’ll need to get cracking.’
‘It’ll be a lousy trip to Hamburg,’ sympathised Fairhurst. ‘Even lousier arriving back at Benson with no visibility for landing.’
Holmes at least drew some comfort on looking at the polished outline of his new, lightning-blue Spitfire XIX. The latest photo reconnaissance version was one hell of a beast. The Mark XIX was driven by a 2,100hp Griffon engine that had twice the power of the first Merlins. It could carry 256 gallons of fuel, three and a half times that of a Spitfire I. A total of 225 were built and were to see service for another decade in the reconnaissance role.
Holmes closed the canopy quickly, hearing the rain thrash down on it as he went through his instrument checks. It felt to him that he would not only be operating against whatever the Nazis could throw at him, but that he was up against the weather gods as well.
The Griffon burst into life and lined up on the rain-splattered runway. He glanced at his watch: 10.28am. Time to go.
His Spitfire hurtled down the strip. He could barely see the control tower. Water streaked off his wheels then ceased as they left the ground. Within 150ft he was in thick cloud. He flew on and up knowing at least no one else would be flying in this muck. Up and up he went, watching the altimeter climb through 10,000ft then 20,000ft, and still he was in thick, clawing cloud. It persisted even when he levelled out at 28,500ft, a height just below that at which his Spitfire would likely produce giveaway contrails if he entered clear weather.
He settled down to a cruising speed of 410mph, taking a few deep breaths to relieve himself of the tension of being in thick cloud relying solely on instruments. Over the North Sea, he switched on his radar detection device, which could pick up whether the enemy radar signal was tracking him. He smiled grimly when he heard a noise he recognised only too well.
‘Almost immediately there came a familiar faint wail as the enemy’s invisible radio beam swept past. It was repeated a second or so later, as the beam came back, then again, fast, as with each sweep the radar operator came nearer to fixing my position.
‘The wails merged and became louder as a second beam then a third locked onto my position, a plot on the German operations board. They could now follow my every move, noting any change of track, speed or height. From the course I was steering they would anticipate the target was Hamburg, reckon my time due over it and have fighters sitting, waiting.’
He knew from now on he had to rely on his years of flying experience, his wits and pure instinct. It had become a game of chess. The
wailing grew louder.
Sod that noise. He switched off the detection device.
‘There was still nothing to be seen outside but swirling, wet cotton wool. It was hard to imagine that five miles below people lived in houses and drove motor cars or tended their animals on farms. All wishing me dead.’
Holmes checked his map, noting he was halfway to the target with another sixty-nine minutes to go. A lifetime. Maybe my lifetime. He began visualising the Hamburg landmarks so he would not have to consult the map if there were fighters waiting over the target.
Then he started a game of cat and mouse, gradually altering his course to starboard, knowing the radar operators would in a few minutes pick up the change and possibly believe he was in fact heading to Bremen. ‘This would mean bringing up more fighters from airfields around Bremen or diverting the Hamburg defenders. I hoped for the latter, because that would leave Hamburg unprotected.’
He jettisoned the drop tank positioned under the cockpit belly which carried the extra ninety gallons of fuel. As it tumbled earthwards, the Spitfire felt lighter and more mobile. He now had greater manoeuvrability for whatever trouble lay ahead. He went to the compass and set course again for Hamburg.
‘Now the cloud was quite suddenly thinner, becoming even wispy. The rain stopped beating the windscreen. It looked as though those Met wallahs might be right after all.’
Ahead he could see that the dark, horrible cloud was giving way to a much lighter and thinner covering. He felt a growing feeling of utter joy as the grim, rain-filled gloom was suddenly lifted.
‘All at once I was sitting on a shimmering white eiderdown, the sun blazing down, dazzling my eyes and warming up the cockpit. The quilt exploded and there through straggling cloud wisps was the ground.
‘Not only the ground! By heaven my navigation, despite the changes of course, had worked like a dream. There was the River Elbe, a shimmering snake dragging its lazy way over green fields and through dense woodland. Not three minutes’ flying to the north the fields ended at the docks of Hamburg.
‘Suddenly my heart gave a bound. Above the Spitfire was a contrail, a twin stream of condensation. Probably an Me262 jet, fast and armed with four 30mm cannons. The reception committee was in attendance. They were circling, waiting patiently for me. My ruse hadn’t been so clever after all.’
It appeared at least that the jet had not yet spotted the Spitfire 5,000ft below, so Holmes dived down towards the quaysides. Even from five miles up he quickly noticed something was amiss.
‘It all appeared bare and white, as if under a blanket of snow. Then, as I was starting with my cameras, I realised what was lacking. The quays were a mass of dust and rubble. There were no buildings. The ground was pockmarked with bomb craters. This was Bomber Command’s revenge for the Luftwaffe’s blitzes on Coventry, Liverpool and London.’
But the Messerschmitt pilot had spotted him and was diving angrily from the rear at a tremendous overtaking speed. With no guns to fight back and no chance of outpacing the German jet, the Spitfire’s only chance was evasion.
‘I slammed the throttle closed. The engine backfired as though it had been shot.’
Holmes focused on the airspeed indicator, willing it to slow. The speed dropped to 300, 250 then 200mph.
He looked over his shoulder. He could make out the clear lines of the Nazi jet, its sharp, sleek, predatory nose and the cigar-shaped twin jet engines, sitting below the wings, firing it along. The gap was now 2,000 yards and the fighter was closing fast. In another few seconds he would close to 1,000 yards and the pilot would be able to engage with all four 30mm cannon.
Holmes’ focus went back to his speed. He had to time his next move to perfection. If he didn’t, the cockpit would shudder to the impact of the high-explosive 30mm shells, themselves the thickness of a cigar.
He felt the Spitfire slowing rapidly. The needle dipped to under 200mph. He counted. One, two, three.
‘I yanked the Spitfire into a vertical right-hand bank then hauled the control column back into my belly until my eyeballs seemed to be rolling down my cheeks.
‘I blacked out completely with the centrifugal pull. Then I kicked on hard right rudder. The aircraft went into a fit of convulsions at this ill-treatment. Streamers flew from its wingtips as it spun down vertically off a high-speed stall. The Messerschmitt, at three times the speed of the Spitfire, was firing futilely because he could never turn tightly enough at his speed to get the deflection on the Spitfire. The whirling tracer from the four 30mm cannons was passing behind me. Surprisingly, I even heard the throaty bark of the guns. Then the Me262 flashed behind as I eased out of the spin.’
The German fighter might be incredibly fast but it was a wallowing whale when it came to agility. Holmes knew it would take the jet at least ten miles to complete its turn and come back at him. He had bought himself time. Lots of time. Certainly just about enough for another run with plenty of exposures left in the cameras. He swept over the west side of Hamburg, clicking pictures of the damage below as he went.
As Holmes finished his run he looked up. Still there was no enemy in sight. He grinned broadly and pushed the Spitfire up into the thick cloud which only moments earlier he had been cursing.
He glanced again behind. A second Messerschmitt, probably answering the call of its leader, was positioning for attack. But he was too far away. Holmes felt a wave of relief as he sped into the thick blanket of cloud.
‘I sang most of the way home. Crazy songs, made-up words, mostly rubbish. I was jubilant. The sound of my own voice, which came back loud and clear through the radio headset, eased the tension. I did not care that I had to land at my base in the sort of weather that made the birds walk.’
When the photographs were developed Bomber Command was delighted. Holmes’ pictures showed there was nothing left to bomb. The war was nearing its final weeks and the lives of hundreds of bomber crews need not be risked for a return trip.
Holmes was given a set of the pictures as a memento and awarded with a fresh egg for lunch.
* * *
Brian Bird
Brian Bird’s courage had not yet been tested in combat although he was not entirely green to warfare after sheltering in the Kent fields during Battle of Britain raids with teenage female farmhands for company. To his constant astonishment and delight, he was now flying the Spitfires he had seen tackle Messerschmitts, Dorniers and Heinkels in the skies of 1940.
In April 1945, the twenty-year-old pilot flew in a Dakota transport plane towards his frontline squadron, watching distant puffs of smoke on the ground as shells burst along the front line. He was heading to join 185 Squadron outside Pisa in Italy.
As the aircraft doors opened he was greeted with the sound of gunfire in the distance. He felt his heartbeat quicken. Finally he was in the war zone, where the action was. His grin broadened at the roar from a flight of Spitfire fighter-bombers taking off for a mission.5
‘One was quickly getting the message that the weeks ahead were going to be like nothing ever before experienced. Quite clearly one’s survival was questionable, but this, in a strange manner, soon became a secondary consideration.’
Walking into the weather-beaten farmhouse that had become the squadron headquarters, he became conscious of a war-footing atmosphere.
This is where the serious, life-and-death decisions are made, Bird thought to himself. The atmosphere was low-key but highly professional, with conversations taking place where lives would clearly be affected. He felt elated at finally arriving on a frontline operational squadron even if the war’s end was in sight. He knew that within days he would be flying into action, where people wanted to take his life and where he might have to kill. It was daunting but absorbing. He wondered, too, how he would react in combat.
He entered the room and found the duty officer sitting behind some discarded ammunition boxes, which served as his desk. ‘An unshaven Flying Officer greeted me and introduced himself as the Squadron Adjutant. With the battle raging a few
miles away there was obviously little time for ceremony or courtesies. I was immediately passed on to the Squadron Intelligence officer who wasted no time in familiarising me with the current position of the front line.
‘One supposes that in peacetime I would have been allowed a day or so to settle in but this was war and there were no such niceties. Within thirty minutes of my arrival at squadron headquarters I was transported in a Jeep down a shell-cratered road to the squadron’s landing strip to be introduced to my ground crew.
‘Only thirty-six hours earlier I had been completing my final instruction course in southern Italy and now here I was, climbing into the cockpit of my first squadron Spitfire in the forward war zone.’
Bird was about to be thrown straight into action. His first operational sortie with 185 Squadron would be at dawn the next day. ‘But not before we give you a good send-off,’ the officer said with a wink as he led him towards the bar.
At some point after midnight and before dawn, Bird found himself staggering through the dark trying to locate his bunk. He found a water pump, put his head under it and drank from the glacial waters that rushed over his head. Slowly he made his way to bed, hoping that the light showing in the distance was not the dawn. Tomorrow – or was it today? – he was going to war.
