We had been climbing steadily, and very near to crossing the coast again - all the time weaving and checking for unwanted company, when Mac came over again. 'Skipper...when we get back I'll ask the armourer to...' And that's as far as he got when orange-yellow lights tore through the floor of our fighter in front of Mac's turret. Flame, smoke, noise and debris heralded the death of a Defiant. 'Get out Mac for Christ's sake.' I screamed, and looking rearward, could see neither Mac nor the turret for the inferno now raging there. I jettisoned the canopy but became fixed to one side of the cockpit by the tremendous 'g' forces as one wing came off. Spiralling madly, I was eventually thrown clear although I cannot remember undoing my straps. The chute opened with a satisfying crack but I was immediately shocked by how low I was. With just a few seconds dangling beneath the canopy, barely having time to complete one brief pendulum like swing I hit the water. Quickly divesting myself of the chute and harness, I noticed with relief that the dinghy had deployed, but there was no sign of Mac and the Defiant was already almost submerged. Paddling around for about half an hour revealed no sign of Mac, and with regret I started for the shore which now seemed further away than when I first climbed into the dinghy. I knew he was a good swimmer, and maybe - just maybe, he might make the beach.
My initial confidence began to flag after an hour of effort because I did'nt seem to be making any headway. In fact I was drifting further and further out. I realized that the tide and the wind were working against me and I became increasingly desperate as dusk fell. There was no sign of a Vosper or ASR aircraft. Also, there were no aircraft or con trails in the distant sky, no vapour trails, and the land had now reduced to a thin grey-green belt on the horizon. Soon, that too disappeared and it was now just me, the stars and the sea....
All night and through the second day, I endured the misery of increasing cold, thirst and hunger. Drifting in and out of conciousness, and getting weaker by the hour, virtually all my remaining strength was expended in bailing out the dinghy until there was nothing for it but to just lie back and wait for the end with the occasional gull passing indifferently by.
God knows how I got through the second night. By morning I could barely register that the sea had become almost flat calm, and that was my only consolation. I recalled a night of abject misery, terrifying dreams and recuring humming and throbbing in my ears. My swollen, blistered lips and hands, my cracked face had not benefitted from the cream in the survival pack and I must have presented a fearful sight. I had'nt the slightest idea of where I was. Maybe way past the Cherbourg peninsular by now, but really I was past caring when late afternoon came round for the third time. Flying fish, a sheet of newspaper, driftwood, something that looked like a Mae West....Had I really seen them or were they the product of dreams or hallucination? The throbbing in my ears returns for the umpteenth time as I feel life itself beginning to slip away. Poor Mac. Why did I have to trade precious height for the sake of confirming a kill? Maybe that jerry would'nt have found us if I'd stayed on top..... I burble a few songs and nursery rhymes in an attempt to stay awake, and read aloud the dinghy instructions for the hundredth time...or is it the thousandth? The humming again, but this time with a low whistling. It's all fading now...enough is enough...my head falls back on the cushion which is the dinghy wall. The sound in my head rushes louder and louder. So this is what it's like to die...this is the sound of death. I open my eyes for one last look at the sky. It is momentarily darkened by a thunderous shape which passes so low that I feel the ground effect like some smothering blanket of oblivion.
It has flat sides, a keel, two wings and a pusher engine situated incongruously between them. He banks to the left firing the colours of the day, and then to the right which brings him right round until he is head-on. 'I will not die today...I will not die today...the words repeat in my head until I lose conciousness.
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Over sixty years later, I remember how tearfully relieved I was to learn that Mac, despite burns and the unfavourable tide, had almost made it to the beach, and utterly exhausted, was pulled ashore by some of our Home Guard lads.
The Walrus still remains top of the list of my favourite aircraft.
Fini.
'Find your enemy and shoot him down - everything else is unimportant.'
