My new Hurricane handled beautifully and the smell of new dope was still present in my hairy nostrils as I settled down at about 5000 feet above Manston. Small patches of cumulus were drifting by when suddenly a small aircraft came into view quite low down and crossing the coast heading directly for the airfield. I quickly shook aside my reverie and stalked the interloper from cloud to cloud until I was directly behind and in a favourable position to attack.
There could be no doubt whatsoever - that was a 109 alright and probably hoping to execute a sneak attack on our lads as they lay in disarray outside the Mess were most of them had collapsed and spent the night attempting to get to their feet. Well, we'll see about that you confounded rotter. Just the kind of shabby Hun trick that we had come to expect.
I stuck the nose down and zoomed in for the kill. If I missed, my speed would allow me to zoom up again into cloud out of harms way. Then more deceitful deception...the 109 had RAF roundels and British type camouflage. Was there no limit to the enemy's unsporting nature? I rapped off a two second deflection shot aiming directly in front of the nose. Panels flew off then white steam and a long burst of flame swept back along the fuselage. I passed close by and noted that the enemy had even gone to the trouble of copying our Squadron markings. There they were, plain as could be and quickly becoming engulfed by the flames. J...R...T... JRT!
Bloody Nora! What have I done! My dearest mate clobbered by my own hand. He must have been on an early air test which surprised me greatly. The last time I saw him was just after midnight when he was head-first in a dustbin trying to extricate himself from about fifteen gallons of spew.
Luckily he was close to the ground and able to throttle back and crash land in a wooded clearing, quickly coming to a halt without major disintegration. In a blue funk I landed beside him and dived out of the cockpit before running along his port wing to facilitate a rescue. I pushed back the hood as JRT looked up with blackened face. The forward part of the cockpit was burning brightly and the maps and certain magazines of male interest were fuelling the inferno. In seconds all straps and connections had been undone and I helped him out of the growing cauldron of flames and smoke while noting at the same time a centrefold of Betty Grable with flames starting to consume her shapely arse.
Once clear of the fiery wreck, JRT beheld me with an expression of disbelief, looked at my still smoking guns, and paused before launching a savage attack upon my person. We rolled about in that field, kicking, gouging, and both doing our best to flatten each other's windpipes. Then we were on our feet again and I skillfully blocked his right cross with my left ear, hammered my groin into his flying boot and finished him off by smashing his forehead with my nose. Then we froze in mid combat when an all too familiar voice, fresh from the Russian steppe boomed forth as two great, hairy, wart-ridden hands grabbed our collars...
'Dollinks! Why you fightin' this now? Saving you energies me for babushkas!' Our screams echoed across Manston and our feet flayed the ground like paddles but we weren't going anywhere except backwards as we were dragged into the bushes. Exploding ammunition thrashed that bush for half an hour before the crash crew arrived. But by then we were past caring - and that part of it would not be appearing in the mornings flight report.
'Find your enemy and shoot him down - everything else is unimportant.'
