Overview
One of 'The 30 Best Travel and Adventure Books of All Time', as selected by Gear Patrol, Winner 2015 US Travel and Adventure website. Fighter Pilot was written from the immediate and unfettered personal journal that 23-year-old Flying Officer Paul Richey began on the day he and No. 1 Squadron landed their Hawker Hurricanes on a grass airfield in France. Originally published in September 1941, it was the first such account of air combat against the Luftwaffe in France in the Second World War, and it struck an immediate chord with a British public enthralled by the exploits of its young airmen. It is the story of a highly skilled group of young volunteer fighter pilots who patrolled, flew and fought at up to 30,000 feet in unheated cockpits, without radar and often from makeshift airfields, and who were finally confronted by the overwhelming might of Hitler's Blitzkreig. It tells how this remarkable squadron adapted its tactics, its aircraft and itself to achieve a brilliant record of combat victories – in spite of the most extreme and testing circumstances. All the thrills, adrenalin rushes and the sheer terror of dog-fighting are here: simply, accurately and movingly described by a young airman discovering for himself the deadly nature of the combat in which he is engaged.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780750965385 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | The History Press |
| Publication date: | 05/02/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 216 |
| Sales rank: | 267,829 |
| File size: | 6 MB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Fighter Pilot
A Personal Record of the Campaign in France 1939-1940
By Paul Richey, Diana Richey
The History Press
Copyright © 2016 Diana RicheyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7509-6538-5
CHAPTER 1
FIGHTER COMMAND
I caught my first glimpse of No 1 Squadron in 1937 on a brilliant summer's day at the annual RAF Display at Hendon. Above a thrilled crowd a flight of four silver-and-red Hawker Furies looped, rolled and stall-turned in faultless unison. They were flown by Flight Lieutenant Teddy Donaldson and Flying Officers Top Boxer, Johnny Walker and Prosser Hanks – 1 Squadron's formation aerobatic team. They were to go on to the international aerobatic competition at Zurich, where they astonished the Swiss, Italians, French and Germans by taking off in such dirty weather that the other teams refused to fly and performing their normal aerobatic routine with the cloudbase at 200 feet. They won.
Driving back that evening to my RAF flying training school in Lincolnshire, I was impatient for the day when I would be a member of a fighter squadron. Eighteen months later I was posted to 1 Squadron at Tangmere.
During the two years before my posting I had flown over the length and breadth of our kingdom and had come to know and love it as only a pilot can. But Tangmere, between the South Downs and Selsey Bill on the Channel, was a legendary station, not only for its beautiful position, but also for its two outstanding fighter squadrons, 1 and 43.
On arrival at Tangmere I was somewhat alarmed to hear about the 'flap' that had swept through the fighter squadrons during the Munich crisis a few months earlier. All the 1 Squadron officers had spent a hectic week in the hangars with the aircraftsmen spraying camouflage paint on the brilliant silver aircraft. The troops had belted ammunition day and night. And the CO of 1 Squadron (which was equipped with obsolete Hawker Fury biplanes carrying two slow-firing machine-guns and capable of a top speed of 220 mph) had announced to his startled pilots: 'Gentlemen, our aircraft are too slow to catch the German bombers: we must ram them.'
Fortunately for the RAF, England and the world, Mr Chamberlain managed to stave off war for a year. That vital year gave the RAF time to re-equip the regular fighter squadrons with Hurricanes and Spitfires armed with eight rapid-firing machine-guns and capable of an average top speed of 350 mph.
Re-equipment at Tangmere was completed early in 1939. Half the pilots of each squadron now had to be permanently available on the station in case of a German attack. Gone were the carefree days, when we would plunge into the cool blue sea at West Wittering and lie on the warm sand in the sun, or skim over the waters of Chichester Harbour in the squadron's sailing dinghy, or drive down to the 'Old Ship' at Bosham in the evening with the breeze whipping our hair and 'knock it back' under the oak rafters. Our days were now spent in our Hurricanes at air drill, air firing, practice battle formations and attacks, dogfighting – and operating under ground control with the new super-secret RDF (later called Radar).
The standard of flying in 1 Squadron was red hot. Johnny Walker and Prosser Hanks, members of the 1937 aerobatic team, were still with the Squadron. Johnny was flight commander of 'A' Flight, to which I was posted, and Prosser later took command of 'B' Flight. 1 Squadron was one of the last to convert to the Hurricane, and our first object was to de-bunk it as a rather fearsome aircraft. The Air Ministry had forbidden formation aerobatics to be attempted at all, or individual aerobatics below 5,000 feet. 1 Squadron proceeded to demonstrate that the Hurricane could be easily and safely aerobatted both in formation and below 5,000 feet.
Some of our pilots were killed. One dived down a searchlight beam at night and hit the Downs at 400 miles an hour. And I vividly remember, half an hour before I took a Hurricane up for the first time, seeing a sergeant pilot coming in for a forced landing with a cut engine. He was too slow on the final turn and spun into the ground on the edge of the airfield. I was the first to reach him: he had been flung clear, but blood was running out of his ears and he was dying. However, fatal accidents were a fact of flying life, and 1 Squadron's peace-time average of one per month was considered normal.
During the annual RAF air exercises in midsummer a foreign air force was allowed to fly over England for the first time: French bombers 'attacked' London. We intercepted them with the aid of RDF at 14,000 feet in bright sunshine off the south coast. How gay they looked with their red, white and light blue markings! But how pathetically out-of-date. Later that day Johnny Walker and I intercepted three RAF Blenheims low over the Downs under a violent thunderstorm. They looked grim and businesslike, with mock German crosses on their wings ...
Shortly after the Exercises we were visited by Squadron Leader Coop, British assistant air attaché in Berlin. He gave us a lecture on the Luftwaffe. We were staggered by the number of superbly equipped German bomber and fighter squadrons. These figures rammed home what a narrow escape England had had at the time of Munich, and as that glorious last summer of 1939 rolled on it became clear that it was no longer a question of whether there would be a war, but merely when it would come.
In August we were told we would soon be leaving for France. Shortly afterwards one of our hangars was stacked with the transport and mobile equipment we would take with us. We heard that several RAF Fairey Battle squadrons had already left and we would be off any moment. And we also heard that Air Marshal 'Stuffy' Dowding, Commander-in-Chief of Fighter Command, was kicking up a stink with the Air Ministry: Dowding strongly objected to surrendering the four fighter squadrons earmarked to go to France with the British Expeditionary Force – 1, 73, 85 and 87. He had even paid us the compliment of stating that he would not hold himself responsible for the defence of London if we were sent abroad.
On 1 September Hitler invaded Poland. On Sunday morning, 3 September, all our officers gathered in the mess at eleven-fifteen to hear Mr Chamberlain's broadcast to the nation. It was with heavy hearts and grave faces that we heard the sad voice of that man of peace say:
This country is at war with Germany ... We and France are today, in fulfilment of our obligations, going to the aid of Poland, who is so bravely resisting this wicked attack on her people ... Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against: brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution. Against them I am certain that right will prevail.
CHAPTER 2BRITISH EXPEDITIONARY FORCE AIR COMPONENT
No 1 Squadron was called to Readiness at dusk on the first night of war. At stand-by in our blacked-out crewroom we sat around talking fitfully or just drowsed. I thoughtfully considered two of the Squadron's World War I trophies hanging in the gloom near the ceiling: the fins of a Pfalz and a Fokker, both bearing the sinister German black cross.
An intelligence report came in: 'Heavy concentration of German bombers crossing the Dutch frontier.' A few minutes later Johnny, Sergeant Soper and I were scrambled and we roared off one by one down the flare-path. Johnny went first, I followed. After I had cleared the airfield hedge, got my wheels up and checked my instruments, I looked for Johnny's amber formation light, spotted it and climbed after him. Soon I was tucked in beside him, with Soper on the other side, and we climbed up to our patrol height of 20,000 feet and opened out into battle formation.
As we droned up and down between Brighton and Portsmouth we could see the coastline clearly below us under the bright full moon. But the whole country was in darkness. Not a single light showed, in sharp contrast to our previous night flights, with Southampton, Portsmouth, Brighton and every town and village along the coast lit up like Christmas trees.
After an hour on patrol without sighting a German aircraft we were recalled by radio and returned. Another section had been sent off, in spite of ground mist that threatened to blot out the airfield.
Soon after landing we were warned to expect seven RAF Whitley heavy bombers which would land at dawn on their return (it was hoped) from bombing the Ruhr. Only two turned up. We watched them trying to find the airfield in the ground mist and fired off Verey lights to help them. They got down all right and we clustered round them. I noticed a bunch of paper sticking to the tail-wheel of a Whitley and grabbed a handful of it. It was a selection of messages from the British Government to the German people, in German. So that was all they had dropped! The Phoney War was on.
That first week of war at Tangmere was tense. There was no more news of our impending departure for France and our time was spent standing-by our Hurricanes and scrambling at each alarm. We expected to be bombed at any moment, but no bombers came and the tension gave way to a feeling of unreality. It was difficult to realize that we were really at war, and that men were dying in thousands on the Polish frontier while all was peaceful here. The sun shone just the same, the old windmill on the hill looked just the same, the fields and woods and country lanes were just the same. But we were stalked by a feeling of melancholy that resolved into the fact: we are at war. At last, on 7 September, we were ordered to France.
At nine-thirty on the morning of Friday, 8 September, I was snatching a few minutes' sleep in my room when my batman came in and said: 'Colonel Richey to see you, Sir' and in walked my father. I was very glad to see him and we sat and talked of nothing in particular. At ten-thirty my batman dashed in again: 'No 1 Squadron called to Readiness, Sir!' I embraced my father and hurried down to the airfield with the other pilots. We were soon grouped beside our Hurricanes. As they were started up one by one, Leak Crusoe took a photograph of the whole team. We ripped the Squadron badges from our overalls (by order) and I gave mine to a fitter to take to my father, who was leaning over the airfield fence watching us. We jumped into our cockpits, and as I taxied past I waved him goodbye. We knew and understood each other's thoughts. There was no time, or inclination, for more.
We took off in sections of three, joining up, after a brief individual beat-up, into flights of six in sections-astern, then went into aircraft line- astern. Down to Beachy Head for a last look at the cliffs of England, then we turned out across the sea. As we did so Peter Townsend's voice came over the R/T from Tangmere: 'Goodbye and good luck from 43 Squadron!'
There was not a cloud in the sky, scarcely a breath of wind on the sea, and the heat in the cockpits was almost unbearable, as we had on all our gear – full uniform, overalls, web equipment, revolver, gas mask slung, and Mae West. Only the almost complete absence of shipping in the Channel brought home to us the fact that there must be a war on somewhere. After about thirty minutes Dieppe appeared through the heat haze and we turned down the coast towards Le Havre.
Our airfield at Havre lay north-west of the town on the edge of 400-foot cliffs. It was new and spacious, with an unfinished hangar on one side. On the other side, surrounded by trees, was a long, low building that turned out to be a convent that had been commandeered to billet us. The Squadron closed in, broke up into flights of six, then sections of three and, after appropriately saluting the town, came in to land individually. We taxied in to a welcome from our troops: No 1 Squadron had arrived in France, the first of the British fighter squadrons to do so.
The evening was spent in the town – the Guillaume Tell, the Normandie, the Grosse Tonne and La Lune following each other in rapid succession. La Lune, I may add, was a brothel, but its main attraction for us was that its drinking amenities were untrammelled by such trifling considerations as time. The town was full of Americans trying to escape from the war zone to the States, and a very cheery lot they were. They were full of admiration for our formation flying; they were full of grog too, and a good time was had by all.
The next day found us sober and very very sorry. Our squadron leader, Bull Halahan, smartly rid us of our hangovers – the next three hours were spent digging a trench in the convent orchard for use in the event of a raid. The sun beat down on our sweating bodies and reeling heads and the alcohol literally poured out of us. At eleven we stopped work – fortunately, as none of us was capable of continuing. Buckets of cold water from the pump pulled us round a little – and then over to the aircraft for a squadron formation.
Soon we were in our cockpits, most of us in shirt-sleeves in the heat. Engine after engine burst into life and was run up by its pilot. The Bull's order came clearly over the R/T: 'Come on, we're off! We're off!' He taxied past, followed by Hilly Brown and Leslie Clisby, who formed his section of three. Then came Johnny Walker, Pussy Palmer and Sergeant Soper, the Red Section of 'A' Flight, followed by Prosser Hanks, myself and Stratton, the Yellow Section. Next came 'B' Flight – Leak Crusoe, Boy Mould, Sergeant Berry (Blue Section), and Billy Drake, Sergeant Clowes and Sergeant Albonico (Green Section).
The fifteen Hurricanes move forward together with a deep roar, slowly at first, then gathering speed. Tails come up, and controls get more 'feel'. Bump-bump-bump. Almost off. A bit frightening, this take-off. We fly! No ... down we come again. Bump ... Blast! Must have been a down-draught ... Hold it! We're off now – straight over the cliff edge 400 feet above the sea. I see Prosser shut his eyes in mock terror. It is an odd feeling. As usual, I start to talk to myself. Wheels up. Keep in. Stick between knees. Come on, bloody wheels! Dropping behind a bit. Open your throttle! More! Wide! Ah, there are the two pretty red lights: the wheels are locked up. Now get in closer, for God's sake! The Bull's giving it too much throttle, blast him! Anyway – I'm tucked in now. That's fine.
'Sections astern – Sections astern – Go!' over the R/T from the Bull. Back drops my section of three, a little left and underneath. There we are. Don't waffle, Pussy, or I'll chew up your tail! Up we climb. Phew, it's hot! But I'll bet it looks nice. Hope so anyway.
Out we go over the sea. Flying south I think. Yes, there's the far side of the Seine. 'Turning right – turning right a fraction!' from the Bull. Round and out to sea again. Keep below Prosser in the turn – that's right. Hell, the sun's bloody bright! I can't see Prosser's wing when he's above me in the turn. Don't hit him! Watch his tailplane! The Bull again: 'Coming out – coming out!' We straighten. Ah, that's better – I can see now. And the Bull once more: 'For Number 5 Attack – Deploy – Go! Sections-line-astern – Go! Number 5 Attack – Go!'
Open out a bit. There goes Johnny. Now Pussy. Soper. Prosser next. Now me. Down I go. Watch 'B' Flight and synchronize with them. Pull up now. Fire! Break away quickly. Roll right over and down to the right. Rejoin. Where's Prosser got to? Can't see a bloody thing. Ah, there he is, up there. Full throttle! Up – up – cut the corner. Here we come behind him. Throttle back or you'll pass him. And there we are again, back in line-astern.
Prosser's waggling his wings. That means form Vic. 'Re-form! – Re-form!' from the Bull. 'Turning right now!' Towards Havre? Yes, there it is dead ahead. 'Sections-echelon-starboard – Go!' Right goes my section. Up. Left. Keep in! There, that's nice, really nice. The whole squadron is now in Vics of three aircraft and the five Vics are echeloned to starboard. Now, fingers out please 1 Squadron. Hope we don't overshoot. No, here we go. 'Peel off – peel off – Go!' says the Bull. His section banks left in formation beyond the vertical and disappears below. Johnny's section follows. Don't watch them – keep your eyes glued to Prosser. Here goes my section now. Down, down we dive in tight Vic, turning slightly left. Keep in – tucked right in! Stratton is OK the other side of Prosser. Right a bit. The controls are bloody stiff – must be doing a good 400. Flattening out now. Don't waffle! There goes the harbour. Buildings flashing by. We're nice and low. Keep in! Hold it! Pulling up now – up – over the rise – over the airfield now. Down we go again – just to make the Frogs lie down. Up over the trees – just! Round and back again. Good fun, this. Bet they're enjoying the show down there. I am! Here we go again, skimming the grass and heading straight for the trees. Pull up – up come our noses and we just clear them. Prosser's waving his hand. Break away! There goes Stratton's belly – away we go, nicely timed, in a Prince of Wales, and I'm on my own.
What now? God, I feel ill! Let's give the old girl a last shake-up. What about an upward roll? Good idea – but watch the others – the air's full of flying bodies! Let's climb. Down in that clear space. Need some speed for this. 300-350-360. That's enough. Adjust the tailwheel. Now back with the stick. Gently up – up – a touch harder now. Horizon gone – look out along the wing. Wait till she's vertical – now look up. Stick central, now over to the right of the cockpit. Round she goes. Stop. Back with the stick. Look back. There's the horizon, upside down – stick forward – now over to the left and out we roll. Not bad. Oh my God, I'm going to be sick ...
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Fighter Pilot by Paul Richey, Diana Richey. Copyright © 2016 Diana Richey. Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Praise,Title,
Dedication,
Quote,
Acknowledgements,
Map,
1. Fighter Command,
2. British Expeditionary Force Air Component,
3. Advanced Air Striking Force,
4. Entente Cordiale,
5. Twitching Noses,
6. Battle Stations,
7. The Bust-up,
8. Action,
9. Reaction,
10. Pilote Anglais?,
11. 'Il Est Fort, Ce Boche!',
12. 'Number One Squadron, Sir!',
13. Strategic Withdrawal,
14. The Last Battle,
15. Paris in Springtime,
16. Who's For Cricket?,
Appendices,
The Author,
Postscript 1,
Postscript 2,
Honours, Awards and Citations,
Plates,
Copyright,
Related Subjects
Customer Reviews
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