Most Memorable Op 1

Mid-morning on June2, 1942 was bright and sunny, and our wing of Spitfires was roaming the French skies for the second time that morning. I was with 403 Squadron, flying out of Southend-on-Sea, England. Banjo, our ground control, was continuously warning us that the Germans were up in considerable strength and eventually our wing commander gave the order to turn right and dive for home.
At the 26,000-foot level there should have been no problem in outrunning the FW 190s. But at this moment our squadron commander gave the order “Sherry squadron, break left---sharp left.” The 12 Spitfire MK. 5Bs were immediately engaged by about 40 enemy 190s. I was in Blue 3 position, and as I tightened into my turn shells smashed through the hood and into my instrument panel.

A moment later, as I straightened out for a quick burst of cannon and machine-gun fire at a 190, I was hit from below by cannon-fire.
I had only a few seconds in which to bail out, not an easy procedure in a Spitfire. I pulled the pin on the Sutton harness that held me in my seat, then jettisoned the hood. The helmet and its radio and oxygen cords were removed. I raised the seat as high as possible, trying to get the nose of the aircraft up and establish level flight, then shoved the stick forward hard. The idea was that the aircraft would go straight down and the pilot straight out.
It worked, and I landed in a plowed French field where I immediately tried to dispose of my parachute. I didn’t smoke and therefore had no matches to set it on fire, just as well since the smoke would have attracted attention. Next I tried to bury it, but until you’ve tried you have no appreciation of the immense amount of material in a parachute. As I was kicking away at the dirt two German soldiers arrived, their rifles at the ready. They were on bicycles and had been watching my descent. I got the usual greeting. “For you the war is over, ja”
I had been cut over the right eye which bled freely, giving the appearance of a much more serious injury than was the case. The German lance-corporals - gefreiters - captured me. One spoke English fluently. They took me to a nearby village and into a pub. In the kitchen area, a motherly French woman washed the blood away and applied disinfectant. Food was then offered which I refused as I had read in English papers, just a few days before, that the French had very little food. The English-speaking German soldier said, “Eat, you don’t know when you will get your next meal-the French have lots of food.” Sure enough, I was served a plate of fried eggs, crusty bread and a glass of beer.    (Continued at Memorable Op 2)