31.03.2009, 04:39
15:00 hrs, 3rd September 1941, Vayenga Airfield
The sound of a sick engine brought me to the door of the hut. On the approach to Vayenga was a solitary Hurricane whose pilot was coaxing it home on a wing and a prayer. It crossed the airfield boundary low, nose high, struggling for distance. Just put it down you idiot! Too late. The Merlin gave up. With the loss of power the Hurricane made a stately turn to the left and nosed in. Almost on the runway wasn't almost enough. I saw the aeroplane disintegrate on impact, parts flying off as if a balsa wood toy had been smashed with a hammer. There was no explosion, but little chance of survivng a crash like that.
The Russian rescue crews were on their way as the last few scraps of aeroplane fluttered to the ground. The Hurricane lay there folded up. I called for the Adjutant. "Any of our chaps flying?"
He looked at me for a second. "No Sir. That's... a Hurricane from 134 Squadron. The one suffering oil blockages. It was due an air test today."
"Let me rephrase the question. Who was flying that?"
The Adjutant sighed. "The... aeroplane was booked out by Squadron Leader Phelps."
Wing Commander Rhodes Crawford took personal control of 134 Squadron by early afternoon. None of the other pilots had sufficient experience or seniority. We all got a stern lecture on procedures and were expressly forbidden from making stupid mistakes. Not suprisingly, Crawford called me into the squadron office.
""Ah, Hendon, do sit down won't you?" He said, teeth clenched on his pipe, leafing through various documents. "We've had mixed success I see. A reprimand no less. For a mid air collision?."
I took a deep breath. "It was during a dogfight Sir. Unfortunately these things happen."
"Well they won't happen to my squadrons, I hope you understand that? I see you're also the top scoring ace here Murmansk. Thirteen kills. That's excellent. Keep up the good work. Now..." He leant back in his seat and made a few puffs on his pipe to refresh himself. "There's been some bother in headquarters. Kuznetsov has been replaced by a chap called Voroshilov. General Wynchett is of the opinion neither could organise a booze-up in a brewery, but as of now this Voroshilov chap happens to be the Russian commander for this front. He's made it known that he wants our Russian friends to take on more responsibility for the conduct of the war. Good for morale and all that. Well, that's mostly my problem, but I understand you had a little disagreement?"
"Yes Sir. That's been dealt with."
"I see. Now since most of your aeroplanes are unserviceable I'm requiring you and your flight to escort some transport planes in from Murmashi. It's a milk run. Now don't fret. We need to conserve our strength. My squadron will take on patrols of the area. All clear?... Good. Nice to have this chance to meet you, Hendon, that'll be all."
The milk run brought two Lisuonv transports back from Murmashi. The weather was good, if a little turbulent, and stayed in the circuit whilst the chaps came in to land. What's that west of here? Ivanov's flight? The specks looked a little less like fighters as they flew in overhead. Bombers! I throttled up and climbed. Flak was beginning to open up and I wasn't going to fly through that, so I held off and gained height. The Junkers 88's dropped bombs that mercifully did little damage, turning for home with my little Hurricane giving chase.
I closed in on the tail end charlie. A good burst caught him and I could see at least one engine was damaged. Avoiding the streams of bullets from their machinegunners I passed the rear of another, and gave a long aimed burst. He was smoking nicely, falling out of formation and diving in. I saw no parachutes.
I heard the impact of machinegun fire and jerked the plane upward. The engine note was less healthy so I decided to abandon any further attacks and made for Vayenga. The fate of Phelps was well in mind as I approached, but in the final analysis I had height to spare. The engine was whining and it seemed wiser to shut it down, gliding in and landing dead-stick. I hope Crawford approved.
Where had Ivanov gotten to? A few discreet enquires discovered he'd seen off a German attack on shipping out past the coast. There were no kills. A part of me wonders where the ace of '37 has gone.
The sound of a sick engine brought me to the door of the hut. On the approach to Vayenga was a solitary Hurricane whose pilot was coaxing it home on a wing and a prayer. It crossed the airfield boundary low, nose high, struggling for distance. Just put it down you idiot! Too late. The Merlin gave up. With the loss of power the Hurricane made a stately turn to the left and nosed in. Almost on the runway wasn't almost enough. I saw the aeroplane disintegrate on impact, parts flying off as if a balsa wood toy had been smashed with a hammer. There was no explosion, but little chance of survivng a crash like that.
The Russian rescue crews were on their way as the last few scraps of aeroplane fluttered to the ground. The Hurricane lay there folded up. I called for the Adjutant. "Any of our chaps flying?"
He looked at me for a second. "No Sir. That's... a Hurricane from 134 Squadron. The one suffering oil blockages. It was due an air test today."
"Let me rephrase the question. Who was flying that?"
The Adjutant sighed. "The... aeroplane was booked out by Squadron Leader Phelps."
Wing Commander Rhodes Crawford took personal control of 134 Squadron by early afternoon. None of the other pilots had sufficient experience or seniority. We all got a stern lecture on procedures and were expressly forbidden from making stupid mistakes. Not suprisingly, Crawford called me into the squadron office.
""Ah, Hendon, do sit down won't you?" He said, teeth clenched on his pipe, leafing through various documents. "We've had mixed success I see. A reprimand no less. For a mid air collision?."
I took a deep breath. "It was during a dogfight Sir. Unfortunately these things happen."
"Well they won't happen to my squadrons, I hope you understand that? I see you're also the top scoring ace here Murmansk. Thirteen kills. That's excellent. Keep up the good work. Now..." He leant back in his seat and made a few puffs on his pipe to refresh himself. "There's been some bother in headquarters. Kuznetsov has been replaced by a chap called Voroshilov. General Wynchett is of the opinion neither could organise a booze-up in a brewery, but as of now this Voroshilov chap happens to be the Russian commander for this front. He's made it known that he wants our Russian friends to take on more responsibility for the conduct of the war. Good for morale and all that. Well, that's mostly my problem, but I understand you had a little disagreement?"
"Yes Sir. That's been dealt with."
"I see. Now since most of your aeroplanes are unserviceable I'm requiring you and your flight to escort some transport planes in from Murmashi. It's a milk run. Now don't fret. We need to conserve our strength. My squadron will take on patrols of the area. All clear?... Good. Nice to have this chance to meet you, Hendon, that'll be all."
The milk run brought two Lisuonv transports back from Murmashi. The weather was good, if a little turbulent, and stayed in the circuit whilst the chaps came in to land. What's that west of here? Ivanov's flight? The specks looked a little less like fighters as they flew in overhead. Bombers! I throttled up and climbed. Flak was beginning to open up and I wasn't going to fly through that, so I held off and gained height. The Junkers 88's dropped bombs that mercifully did little damage, turning for home with my little Hurricane giving chase.
I closed in on the tail end charlie. A good burst caught him and I could see at least one engine was damaged. Avoiding the streams of bullets from their machinegunners I passed the rear of another, and gave a long aimed burst. He was smoking nicely, falling out of formation and diving in. I saw no parachutes.
I heard the impact of machinegun fire and jerked the plane upward. The engine note was less healthy so I decided to abandon any further attacks and made for Vayenga. The fate of Phelps was well in mind as I approached, but in the final analysis I had height to spare. The engine was whining and it seemed wiser to shut it down, gliding in and landing dead-stick. I hope Crawford approved.
Where had Ivanov gotten to? A few discreet enquires discovered he'd seen off a German attack on shipping out past the coast. There were no kills. A part of me wonders where the ace of '37 has gone.