Squadron: No.501 "County of Gloucester" Squadron
Squadron code: "SD"
Pilot name: Flying Officer Teepee
Date: 12th August 1940
Time: 1200
Aerodrome: RAF Gravesend
Type: Trusty Hawker Hurricane Mk 1A
Marking: "M for Marvel"
Serial number: N2617
Synopsis:
The fearless 501 Sqn had now been deployed to fly from RAF Gravesend with 615 Sqn. My battle weary Hawkers marvel machine has been recovered from Tangmere and the Crew Chief has worked yet more miracles to recover the trusty Hurricane to near perfection. I was getting particularly fond of the old girl as we had been through some pretty fierce scrapes together. This particular machine had been left to me when my old Sqn chum, Pinky Hawthorne had bought it during the early days over in France. Pinky was actually my old school pal the Lord Algernon Pulmonary Pemblebury. He was an avid player of snooker but received his nickname at the tender age of fourteen after being caught twice trying to ‘pot the pink’ with the school Matron (Mrs Heather Hawthorne) at Charterhouse. Happy days!
I was to lead Blue Section and my wingmen for today were again the heroic PO Meaker (Blue 2), LAC Toxic (Blue 3). These chaps were straining to give the Hun a DeWilde welcome and let Hermanns boys know that we were in no mood for surrender.
We strapped into our unbelievable machines and waited. Earlier we had received a visit from the AOC and we were thrilled to find that we had been mentioned in dispatches after our last meeting with the Hun. We had dealt Jerry a damn good thrashing and we were eager to give him some more leather! Soon the order to scramble was heard and we watched as 615 Sqn launched their incredible machines into the beckoning sky.
The Boss gave the go and we were off! Unfortunately during the take-off run my wonder machine hit a pot hole in the runway and slewed onto the grass. The boffins at Hawkers had designed the sturdy machine to take this sort of punishment but I was forced to watch my heroic chums fly into the blue as I rode my bucking steed across the grass towards the dispersals. Undeterred I called for the Crew Chief to sort out the scrapes and dents and offered a crate of Badgers to the Chaps if they worked double time. I was champing at the bit to go and get at the Hun, as I didn’t want to miss the party.
Pretty soon my ground crew heroes had recovered the miracle machine and I quickly strapped in and hurtled down the runway at Hurricane speed! I climbed at a stupendous rate and quickly arrived in the combat area. Too late! I heard the Boss say ‘Knock it off chaps and RTB’. I was mortified. The heroic RAF had dealt a deadly blow to the vermin and they were nowhere to be seen. I met up with fellow pilots Bonkin and Bully who were both breathless from their aerial combat. We headed back to Gravesend and landed with no damage.
We returned to the dispersal where we briefed the Sqn Adj. I listened avidly as the heroes recounted their tales of battle. Pretty soon the other chaps arrived back on base and we all made our way down to the mess for some Badgers Bollocks and ‘piano burning’. The Badgers flowed and I soon forgot my mishap. I vowed to make up for it when I next flew and headed back to the bar.
It was while I was at the bar that I met a nice young filly who turned out to be a keen bee keeper in the local village. She said she worked, with her twin sister, to keep the bee hives and did I want to go with them both and sample their honey. I agreed, naturally, and said that the thought was foremost in my mind and I could think of no better way to spend my time with them both. I suggested on the way there that we could drop in at the green house and open the bottles of wine. I don’t remember anything else after that.
Claims:
Destroyed: None
Probable: None
Damaged: None
Losses:
Pilot: OK
A/C: Perfectly Serviceable after some initial scrapes and dents.
Tea, Cakes and Medals due for helping to maintain the flow of honey.
Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Moderators: Board of Directors, Administration Staff, Skin Team, Treasurers
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron: No. 501 "County of Gloucester" Squadron
Squadron Code: "SD"
Pilot Name: Flying Officer "Bunny" Hewitt
Date: 12th Aug 1940
Time: 1400
Base: RAF Gravesend
Type: Hawker Hurricane Mk 1a (100 Oct)
Marking: "N" for Nuts
Serial Number: P3084
Synopsis:
The Station Adjutant peered at me over the dirty, oily bottle of beer I'd thumped down on his desk, his face pink and new and shiny, like a newly trussed sausage. God they get younger, I thought to myself. I managed to stifle a surreptitious belch, and clung tighter to the back of the worn, green leathered seat I stood behind, desperately trying to minimise the room's swaying. He could smell the beer in the room. I could smell the beer in the room, despite the oil fumes I'd gorged on only two hours earlier. But no matter how much I argued the toss, he simply didn't want to acknowledge the sound principle that I deserved tea and biscuits for the day's work, and possibly a medal to boot.
"Now, Flying Officer Hewitt; do tell me again the circumstances you found yourself in prior to your arrival at this station. And this time, please do your best to avoid slurring quite so much."
"Yesh", I replied, in my best attempt at sober.
And so it went...earlier that day I'd rushed from our last mission, only hours prior, to the 'brewery'...
I'd hastily scribbled the day's findings in the "Juice Journal" - my small black records book, filled with the various iterations of ingredient mixes I'd been using to produce what I liked to call "ale", but the lads had decided to call "whatthebollocksisthat". Turning around I secreted several pints of the latest brewed concoction in each and every pocket of my heavy Great Coat, a convenient method to move ale bottles around the station without causing an issue, and headed for the mess to hand it around and garner opinion. Recently, whilst wearing it on a balmy summer's day, Wing Commander Osprey had commented on my sweaty demeanour, but I'd made the excuse of contracting a touch of the lurgy to explain away the sweat and flushed pallor. "Can't have that man, you'd best tell it to go away. Can't have my men all sweaty and pasty-faced you know! They'd drip all over their columns, and that's just plain wrong!" he'd said.
Walking faster than snail's pace was difficult with enough glass in your pockets to build a not insubstantial glasshouse. Luckily each pint pot had its own specially made knitted woollen sock, hand crafted by a rather fetching civvy girl who worked in the kitchens. She was good with her fingers and could carry out all sorts of intricate moves with them - with one of the best cast-off actions I'd ever witnessed. So we swapped talents, she knitted beer socks and in return I got her drunk. She was rather partial to a good long draught, but if I served it with head, she wouldn't take it. No pleasing some women! Still - her knitted beer socks dulled the clanking as the bottles jostled for position in the pockets, so the fact I was using my Great Coat to smuggle each new brew to the crew members hadn't been rumbled.
I was late to the mess, where the blazes was everyone?! At my exclamation, the mess wallah looked up from his mop. "Ain't you 'eard sir? The sirens went orf ten minutes ago! Jerry's on 'is way again!".
"Bloody hell, I'm for the fizzer if I don't get my skates on", I declared. WIth that, I legged it to my trusty Hurricane, and clambered up into the cockpit, the wool-shrouded pint pots clanging against each other, the socks not enough to cope with their mishandling. I disrobed and shoved the coat under my legs - "It should hold there until we get back to earth", I mused, hopefully.
Without much ado, the Wing Co ordered me to drop in with Flying Officer Bonkin who, along with a new chap, LAC Major, were forming up as Green group. The CO's own group were front row on the runway, we were to take up second row, as Osprey called it. Rugger mad that chap, I could only pray that Nitrous wasn't to be number 8 in our own personal scrum - I didn't fancy him clamping down on my jock strap from behind, or from any angle come to think of it! Mind you, number 8 was my old position at Eton, but I can't say I relished the old tackle-grab at scrum down. I shivered at the memory.
"Scramble!" came Osprey's voice over comms. Successively, each group opened the throttle to full boost and pounded down the runway, dust filling the air and lungs, mingling with the heady smell of 100 octane fuel.
"Climb towards Eastchurch to meet up with 64 chaps. Angels 17."
The climb turned out to be largely uneventful, for us. 64 had begun a tangle with 109s near Ramsgate, but we were too low and slow to help. Besides - the bombers were our fodder for the day, so 64 were doing their job and keeping the homunculous hun at bay, leaving their egg-layers undefended over our lands.
Only minutes later and the enemy were sighted dead ahead, slightly below us. Bonkin, Major and myself were in loose formation, and pointed our noses at the nearest group of uninvited guests. Snappers were spotted milling above and below them - Pilot Officer Robo called out five that he could make out. Blimey - a welcoming party for 501! "Lucky I brought some beer!" I thought, glancing down at my scrunched up coat at my feet. "Hold in there girls - not long", I whispered to the bottles.
Our group of bombers turned to their port, heading down the coast towards Deal. We turned gently to starboard, to line up with them. I passed one too fast, let burst a half second but stopped short as I realised I had no chance of hitting anything at that angle. I continued my turn to the right, to come back on their left-hand side. I rolled over them, and dropped down through the centre, but again didn't manage to line up on anything. "Bollocks!", I let out. The beer was clinking at my feet, I had to remember the coat wasn't strapped in like my good self! I continued to corkscrew over and under the enemy, retaining energy whilst foreshortening the distance between us, until I levelled out behind the left-most aircraft. "Green Leader, going in on the left-hand side", I stated. My path was good, I hit the ventral gunner position, pieces of aircraft flew past my cockpit, but I stayed steady. My guns hit the starboard side engine, then the port side, as I raked across the rear of the Dornier 17. Fuel and oil stained the skies behind it, drawing neat lines. It listed to starboard, a small fire visible on the top of the fuselage as I flew over the doomed crew. As I turned to commence my second attack, I could see the poor sods dropping from the sky, the engine well and truly on fire. Robo graciously acknowledged my kill.
I confirmed my next pass would be the left-hand side again to Bonkin - Osprey warned of 109s in the vicinity; it seemed some had broken from the main bomber formation to fly with these we were following. I decided to remain beneath the bombers, and approach from their belly-side. My six was clear, another Dornier was gradually filling my sights. He'd seen me and began evasive manouvres, turning to port in a gentle fashion. I let some shots off, allowing for the deflection angle, and saw hits on the top of the fuselage and the tail plane. More hits in his starboard wing, then elevator, then good solid hits in his starboard engine, severing his oil supply. He spiralled lazily towards the ground - I claim this as a probable. As I flew past, his ventral gunner got a good bead on me, and bullets pierced my aircraft! Water started leaking, and the generator light popped up. Bugger! As I swivelled my head to the front I noted that my plexiglass and side window had also taken a hammering - glass covered the floor of the cockpit. Hurriedly I glanced down at my coat - despite the erratic flying and the showers of lead and glass, it was still there! The bottles were proving harder to kill than the marvellous Hurricane in which they nestled! A formidable beer indeed! I rolled to the left and caught sight of a 109 streaming fuel, co alt! He was dropping down, but as I was also heading in that direction, thanks to the various holes given to me by the Dornier, I followed him down. I was too close to let my eye stray from him, and I'd seen 109s in worse condition turn and shoot a good man from the skies. He started to pull up, I let fly a short burst at him, just to make sure he stayed his descent, and then overshot. He made no attempt to fire at me as I flew past, so I decided to let him land - he could introduce himself to dad's army on the ground! The hun were dropping from the skies all around me - it was raining hun - hallelujah!
I levelled out at 1,000ft, a struggling Dornier limped past my nose. Again, no need to bother them any more - they were going nowhere except the fields to work. The 109 flew past my port side, in a left-hand turn. I circled, waiting for him to land so I could call his position in. He'd levelled out, I called out that he was ditching in a field near Deal, and was just about to elaborate when the horror struck. His aircraft burst into flame as he touched down! He must have had a bad leak, or hit rocks, but one second his gear were down for landing, the next he was burning. He had no chance. I saluted him, and gained altitude to look for the nearest airfield. Immediately my engine started to play up, so I headed for Manston, knowing full well I'd be lucky to make it. "Going to have to land in a field chaps", I declared. "Pint of Badgers please!", threw in Teepee. Bloody typical. If only he knew of my priceless cargo he'd have swapped his order quicker than a ferret up a jacksie! A friendly Hurricane escorted me back to Manston - I missed the pilot's name over comms, but word had obviously got out about the beer onboard! Definitely a 501 lad - they have principals. Not many, but they're there.
As I feared, I'd fallen short of Manston by quite a few miles. Still - it was a beautifully sanguine August afternoon. I'd survived the battle, more than could be said for the poor blighters I'd encountered. And to top it all, my beer seemed intact. I slid the lid back of the old girl, clenched one hand on the neck of my perforated Great Coat, and used the other to lower myself to the ground. There I stood, basking in the summer sun, surrounded by ripe corn swaying in the warm gentle breeze blowing from the south. On inspection, my coat had taken quite the battering, umber-edged bullet holes scattered its surface. Miraculously though, each beer remained intact - I named the ale Lucky B'stard, then and there. I pulled the coat on, despite the heat from the sun; the ale needed guarding. If it could survive action like that, then a bottle of Lucky B'stard was going on every journey from now on - a lucky charm indeed. I licked my finger and stuck it in the air - southerly wind. Excellent - wind at the back, Manston about 5 miles north: roughly two hours gentle march - five bottles in the beer coat. I knew I did about a mile to the pint, but if I walked frugally I could eke it out somewhat - there was a war on after all. I removed the first pint of marching-fuel from an inside pocket, where it had reached optimum temperature. I then proceeded to pull my jack knife from my trousers, popped the cap and took a good long draught. By Jiminy, this beer deserved a medal! I made a mental note to mention it in my report. I took another swig, then began the walk home.
Claims
1 x Dornier Do-17 Destroyed
1 x Dornier Do-17 Probable
1 x Bf109 Destroyed
Aircraft: Field landing on the belly.
Pilot: Very happy.
Squadron Code: "SD"
Pilot Name: Flying Officer "Bunny" Hewitt
Date: 12th Aug 1940
Time: 1400
Base: RAF Gravesend
Type: Hawker Hurricane Mk 1a (100 Oct)
Marking: "N" for Nuts
Serial Number: P3084
Synopsis:
The Station Adjutant peered at me over the dirty, oily bottle of beer I'd thumped down on his desk, his face pink and new and shiny, like a newly trussed sausage. God they get younger, I thought to myself. I managed to stifle a surreptitious belch, and clung tighter to the back of the worn, green leathered seat I stood behind, desperately trying to minimise the room's swaying. He could smell the beer in the room. I could smell the beer in the room, despite the oil fumes I'd gorged on only two hours earlier. But no matter how much I argued the toss, he simply didn't want to acknowledge the sound principle that I deserved tea and biscuits for the day's work, and possibly a medal to boot.
"Now, Flying Officer Hewitt; do tell me again the circumstances you found yourself in prior to your arrival at this station. And this time, please do your best to avoid slurring quite so much."
"Yesh", I replied, in my best attempt at sober.
And so it went...earlier that day I'd rushed from our last mission, only hours prior, to the 'brewery'...
I'd hastily scribbled the day's findings in the "Juice Journal" - my small black records book, filled with the various iterations of ingredient mixes I'd been using to produce what I liked to call "ale", but the lads had decided to call "whatthebollocksisthat". Turning around I secreted several pints of the latest brewed concoction in each and every pocket of my heavy Great Coat, a convenient method to move ale bottles around the station without causing an issue, and headed for the mess to hand it around and garner opinion. Recently, whilst wearing it on a balmy summer's day, Wing Commander Osprey had commented on my sweaty demeanour, but I'd made the excuse of contracting a touch of the lurgy to explain away the sweat and flushed pallor. "Can't have that man, you'd best tell it to go away. Can't have my men all sweaty and pasty-faced you know! They'd drip all over their columns, and that's just plain wrong!" he'd said.
Walking faster than snail's pace was difficult with enough glass in your pockets to build a not insubstantial glasshouse. Luckily each pint pot had its own specially made knitted woollen sock, hand crafted by a rather fetching civvy girl who worked in the kitchens. She was good with her fingers and could carry out all sorts of intricate moves with them - with one of the best cast-off actions I'd ever witnessed. So we swapped talents, she knitted beer socks and in return I got her drunk. She was rather partial to a good long draught, but if I served it with head, she wouldn't take it. No pleasing some women! Still - her knitted beer socks dulled the clanking as the bottles jostled for position in the pockets, so the fact I was using my Great Coat to smuggle each new brew to the crew members hadn't been rumbled.
I was late to the mess, where the blazes was everyone?! At my exclamation, the mess wallah looked up from his mop. "Ain't you 'eard sir? The sirens went orf ten minutes ago! Jerry's on 'is way again!".
"Bloody hell, I'm for the fizzer if I don't get my skates on", I declared. WIth that, I legged it to my trusty Hurricane, and clambered up into the cockpit, the wool-shrouded pint pots clanging against each other, the socks not enough to cope with their mishandling. I disrobed and shoved the coat under my legs - "It should hold there until we get back to earth", I mused, hopefully.
Without much ado, the Wing Co ordered me to drop in with Flying Officer Bonkin who, along with a new chap, LAC Major, were forming up as Green group. The CO's own group were front row on the runway, we were to take up second row, as Osprey called it. Rugger mad that chap, I could only pray that Nitrous wasn't to be number 8 in our own personal scrum - I didn't fancy him clamping down on my jock strap from behind, or from any angle come to think of it! Mind you, number 8 was my old position at Eton, but I can't say I relished the old tackle-grab at scrum down. I shivered at the memory.
"Scramble!" came Osprey's voice over comms. Successively, each group opened the throttle to full boost and pounded down the runway, dust filling the air and lungs, mingling with the heady smell of 100 octane fuel.
"Climb towards Eastchurch to meet up with 64 chaps. Angels 17."
The climb turned out to be largely uneventful, for us. 64 had begun a tangle with 109s near Ramsgate, but we were too low and slow to help. Besides - the bombers were our fodder for the day, so 64 were doing their job and keeping the homunculous hun at bay, leaving their egg-layers undefended over our lands.
Only minutes later and the enemy were sighted dead ahead, slightly below us. Bonkin, Major and myself were in loose formation, and pointed our noses at the nearest group of uninvited guests. Snappers were spotted milling above and below them - Pilot Officer Robo called out five that he could make out. Blimey - a welcoming party for 501! "Lucky I brought some beer!" I thought, glancing down at my scrunched up coat at my feet. "Hold in there girls - not long", I whispered to the bottles.
Our group of bombers turned to their port, heading down the coast towards Deal. We turned gently to starboard, to line up with them. I passed one too fast, let burst a half second but stopped short as I realised I had no chance of hitting anything at that angle. I continued my turn to the right, to come back on their left-hand side. I rolled over them, and dropped down through the centre, but again didn't manage to line up on anything. "Bollocks!", I let out. The beer was clinking at my feet, I had to remember the coat wasn't strapped in like my good self! I continued to corkscrew over and under the enemy, retaining energy whilst foreshortening the distance between us, until I levelled out behind the left-most aircraft. "Green Leader, going in on the left-hand side", I stated. My path was good, I hit the ventral gunner position, pieces of aircraft flew past my cockpit, but I stayed steady. My guns hit the starboard side engine, then the port side, as I raked across the rear of the Dornier 17. Fuel and oil stained the skies behind it, drawing neat lines. It listed to starboard, a small fire visible on the top of the fuselage as I flew over the doomed crew. As I turned to commence my second attack, I could see the poor sods dropping from the sky, the engine well and truly on fire. Robo graciously acknowledged my kill.
I confirmed my next pass would be the left-hand side again to Bonkin - Osprey warned of 109s in the vicinity; it seemed some had broken from the main bomber formation to fly with these we were following. I decided to remain beneath the bombers, and approach from their belly-side. My six was clear, another Dornier was gradually filling my sights. He'd seen me and began evasive manouvres, turning to port in a gentle fashion. I let some shots off, allowing for the deflection angle, and saw hits on the top of the fuselage and the tail plane. More hits in his starboard wing, then elevator, then good solid hits in his starboard engine, severing his oil supply. He spiralled lazily towards the ground - I claim this as a probable. As I flew past, his ventral gunner got a good bead on me, and bullets pierced my aircraft! Water started leaking, and the generator light popped up. Bugger! As I swivelled my head to the front I noted that my plexiglass and side window had also taken a hammering - glass covered the floor of the cockpit. Hurriedly I glanced down at my coat - despite the erratic flying and the showers of lead and glass, it was still there! The bottles were proving harder to kill than the marvellous Hurricane in which they nestled! A formidable beer indeed! I rolled to the left and caught sight of a 109 streaming fuel, co alt! He was dropping down, but as I was also heading in that direction, thanks to the various holes given to me by the Dornier, I followed him down. I was too close to let my eye stray from him, and I'd seen 109s in worse condition turn and shoot a good man from the skies. He started to pull up, I let fly a short burst at him, just to make sure he stayed his descent, and then overshot. He made no attempt to fire at me as I flew past, so I decided to let him land - he could introduce himself to dad's army on the ground! The hun were dropping from the skies all around me - it was raining hun - hallelujah!
I levelled out at 1,000ft, a struggling Dornier limped past my nose. Again, no need to bother them any more - they were going nowhere except the fields to work. The 109 flew past my port side, in a left-hand turn. I circled, waiting for him to land so I could call his position in. He'd levelled out, I called out that he was ditching in a field near Deal, and was just about to elaborate when the horror struck. His aircraft burst into flame as he touched down! He must have had a bad leak, or hit rocks, but one second his gear were down for landing, the next he was burning. He had no chance. I saluted him, and gained altitude to look for the nearest airfield. Immediately my engine started to play up, so I headed for Manston, knowing full well I'd be lucky to make it. "Going to have to land in a field chaps", I declared. "Pint of Badgers please!", threw in Teepee. Bloody typical. If only he knew of my priceless cargo he'd have swapped his order quicker than a ferret up a jacksie! A friendly Hurricane escorted me back to Manston - I missed the pilot's name over comms, but word had obviously got out about the beer onboard! Definitely a 501 lad - they have principals. Not many, but they're there.
As I feared, I'd fallen short of Manston by quite a few miles. Still - it was a beautifully sanguine August afternoon. I'd survived the battle, more than could be said for the poor blighters I'd encountered. And to top it all, my beer seemed intact. I slid the lid back of the old girl, clenched one hand on the neck of my perforated Great Coat, and used the other to lower myself to the ground. There I stood, basking in the summer sun, surrounded by ripe corn swaying in the warm gentle breeze blowing from the south. On inspection, my coat had taken quite the battering, umber-edged bullet holes scattered its surface. Miraculously though, each beer remained intact - I named the ale Lucky B'stard, then and there. I pulled the coat on, despite the heat from the sun; the ale needed guarding. If it could survive action like that, then a bottle of Lucky B'stard was going on every journey from now on - a lucky charm indeed. I licked my finger and stuck it in the air - southerly wind. Excellent - wind at the back, Manston about 5 miles north: roughly two hours gentle march - five bottles in the beer coat. I knew I did about a mile to the pint, but if I walked frugally I could eke it out somewhat - there was a war on after all. I removed the first pint of marching-fuel from an inside pocket, where it had reached optimum temperature. I then proceeded to pull my jack knife from my trousers, popped the cap and took a good long draught. By Jiminy, this beer deserved a medal! I made a mental note to mention it in my report. I took another swig, then began the walk home.
Claims
1 x Dornier Do-17 Destroyed
1 x Dornier Do-17 Probable
1 x Bf109 Destroyed
Aircraft: Field landing on the belly.
Pilot: Very happy.
Last edited by Bunny on Thu Sep 04, 2014 8:53 am, edited 11 times in total.
“It is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes I-16s.” - Douglas Adams
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron: No. 64
Squadron Code: SH
Pilot Name: Wiggs
Date: 12 Aug 1940 1400,
Base: Manston
Type: Spitfire 1a 100 oct
Marking: U for Uncle
Serial: L1040
Synopsis
The tension was palpable as we sat in our planes waiting for the go-ahead to start up. After 28 minutes, and with enemy bombers in sight, we finally got the order to Scramble and everyone took off ASAP in Flight Order which seemed to work out fairly well. One or two of our number was bombed while taking off; however I managed to get into the climbing pattern with the rest of our Squadron and climbed to 12-14,000 feet. In the next 40 minutes I encountered a few 109's but was unable to get my guns onto anything for a long enough period to do any damage. I heard some of the
group heading back to Manston and unless Vranac had reminded me that the gyro is untrustworthy, I might have ended up over France instead of our own airfield! Once I got that sorted out and arrived in the landing pattern at Manston, everyone else was down.....first time landing with an audience and I brought her in alright. Generally had a good mission although I wish I had been able to do more to shoot down a Hun.
Claims
Destroyed: 0
Probable: 0
Pilot and Spitfire untouched by Huns.
Squadron Code: SH
Pilot Name: Wiggs
Date: 12 Aug 1940 1400,
Base: Manston
Type: Spitfire 1a 100 oct
Marking: U for Uncle
Serial: L1040
Synopsis
The tension was palpable as we sat in our planes waiting for the go-ahead to start up. After 28 minutes, and with enemy bombers in sight, we finally got the order to Scramble and everyone took off ASAP in Flight Order which seemed to work out fairly well. One or two of our number was bombed while taking off; however I managed to get into the climbing pattern with the rest of our Squadron and climbed to 12-14,000 feet. In the next 40 minutes I encountered a few 109's but was unable to get my guns onto anything for a long enough period to do any damage. I heard some of the
group heading back to Manston and unless Vranac had reminded me that the gyro is untrustworthy, I might have ended up over France instead of our own airfield! Once I got that sorted out and arrived in the landing pattern at Manston, everyone else was down.....first time landing with an audience and I brought her in alright. Generally had a good mission although I wish I had been able to do more to shoot down a Hun.
Claims
Destroyed: 0
Probable: 0
Pilot and Spitfire untouched by Huns.
Intel Quad Core i5 CPU 750 @ 2.67 GHz ; Win 7 Home Premium 64-bit OS
8 Gb Ram ; ASUS GeForce GTX770 2Gb ;
1.5 Tb HDD; Power Supply 700W CoolerMaster SilentPro ;
Samsung 1080p 60" monitor; Buttkicker 2 Gamer; TrackIR 5;
CH Products Fighterstick USB; Saitek Rudder Pedals; Saitek X52 Pro Throttle;
Home-built CF18 - inspired simulator; good scotch always ready so no bingo fuel
8 Gb Ram ; ASUS GeForce GTX770 2Gb ;
1.5 Tb HDD; Power Supply 700W CoolerMaster SilentPro ;
Samsung 1080p 60" monitor; Buttkicker 2 Gamer; TrackIR 5;
CH Products Fighterstick USB; Saitek Rudder Pedals; Saitek X52 Pro Throttle;
Home-built CF18 - inspired simulator; good scotch always ready so no bingo fuel
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron: No.501 Squadron
Squadron code: "TB"
Pilot name: Major
Date: 12 Aug 1940 1400, Manston
Base: Gravesend
Type: Hawker Hurricane 1 100 Oct
Marking: T for Toc
Claims :
Destroyed: 0
Probable: 2 Do-17
Damaged: 0
Pilot: OK
A/C: OK
Squadron code: "TB"
Pilot name: Major
Date: 12 Aug 1940 1400, Manston
Base: Gravesend
Type: Hawker Hurricane 1 100 Oct
Marking: T for Toc
Claims :
Destroyed: 0
Probable: 2 Do-17
Damaged: 0
Pilot: OK
A/C: OK
-
Baron le Scrope
- Posts: 1047
- Joined: Wed Mar 13, 2013 2:25 pm
- Location: Doncaster S/Yorks.
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron: No615.
Squadron code: "KW"
Pilot name:Baron.
Date: 12th August 1940.
Time: 13.45
Base: Gravesend
Type: Hawker Hurricane Mk.1 100oct[Rotol
Marking:B for beer.
Serial number: P3231
Re-deployed to Gravesend, forboding name, Panta sat in their cockpits waiting for the off, when Cuthbert, one of our ground crew, jumped up on the wing and informed me that the port tyre was flat. Get me another kite i yelled, there is'nt one sir, they are both being serviced, we will have to fit another wheel. "Jump to it then, we are about to take off". I climbed out of the cockpit and waited impatiently while the ground crew set about changing the wheel. I watched Panta and Mandrel soar into the blue yonder soon to be swallowed up in the haze, dead silence, one minute the sound of healthy merlins then nothing. "There you are sir all done, bring her back in one piece wont you". Ignoring proceedure i shot straight across the field eager to catch up to my squadron which by now were well on their way to North Foreland. "Tally Ho" came the melodic cry of F/O Random Panta leader. I requested alt and heading and received a notification that the bombers were heading back towards the Dover area to which i altered course, but were too far out for intercepting, so changed course towards Manston as there was some activity of 109s in that area but was ordered back to base if not engaged by our Winco.
F/O Random r/teed Panta to rejoin at angels 10 over Dover harbour
which was accomplished whithin minutes. Skipper laid in a course for Gravesend and proved his worth at navigation by hitting it right on the button. We all landed perfectly in formation as normal.
Taxied up to the hanger, climbed out of the cockpit,"There you are Cuthbert, no damage, no re-arming, just refuel.H'm, quite a pleasant day really, don't know what all the fuss was about".
Claims: 0
Destroyed:0
Probable: 0
Damaged: 0
Pilot: OK
A/C: OK
Squadron code: "KW"
Pilot name:Baron.
Date: 12th August 1940.
Time: 13.45
Base: Gravesend
Type: Hawker Hurricane Mk.1 100oct[Rotol
Marking:B for beer.
Serial number: P3231
Re-deployed to Gravesend, forboding name, Panta sat in their cockpits waiting for the off, when Cuthbert, one of our ground crew, jumped up on the wing and informed me that the port tyre was flat. Get me another kite i yelled, there is'nt one sir, they are both being serviced, we will have to fit another wheel. "Jump to it then, we are about to take off". I climbed out of the cockpit and waited impatiently while the ground crew set about changing the wheel. I watched Panta and Mandrel soar into the blue yonder soon to be swallowed up in the haze, dead silence, one minute the sound of healthy merlins then nothing. "There you are sir all done, bring her back in one piece wont you". Ignoring proceedure i shot straight across the field eager to catch up to my squadron which by now were well on their way to North Foreland. "Tally Ho" came the melodic cry of F/O Random Panta leader. I requested alt and heading and received a notification that the bombers were heading back towards the Dover area to which i altered course, but were too far out for intercepting, so changed course towards Manston as there was some activity of 109s in that area but was ordered back to base if not engaged by our Winco.
F/O Random r/teed Panta to rejoin at angels 10 over Dover harbour
which was accomplished whithin minutes. Skipper laid in a course for Gravesend and proved his worth at navigation by hitting it right on the button. We all landed perfectly in formation as normal.
Taxied up to the hanger, climbed out of the cockpit,"There you are Cuthbert, no damage, no re-arming, just refuel.H'm, quite a pleasant day really, don't know what all the fuss was about".
Claims: 0
Destroyed:0
Probable: 0
Damaged: 0
Pilot: OK
A/C: OK
Antec 900 case,/ Sabertooth P67 MoBo,/ Intel corei7 2600cpu-/- MSI GTX 970 4G Graphics, --WD-1Tb Velociraptor HDD--16g Corsair 2133Mhz Ram/-- Corsair TX 850w PSU /--Samsung40"led TV, TrackiR5, CH J/sick. Warthog Throttle. Corsair Vengeance 2100 H/set/mike. W10 Pro 64, /---Two slightly depressed teabags.
Think nothing of it sir, it was the least I could do, a quantity I specialize in.
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron: No. 64 Squadron
Squadron Code: SH
Pilot Name: Deeside
Type: Spitfire Ia 100 octane
Marking: K
Date: 12 Aug 1940, 14:00
Base: Manston
Claims:
Confirmed: 0
Probable: 0
Damaged: Bf110
Losses:
AC: OK
Pilot: OK
Squadron Code: SH
Pilot Name: Deeside
Type: Spitfire Ia 100 octane
Marking: K
Date: 12 Aug 1940, 14:00
Base: Manston
Claims:
Confirmed: 0
Probable: 0
Damaged: Bf110
Losses:
AC: OK
Pilot: OK
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron: No. 501 "County of Gloucester" Squadron
Squadron Code: SD
Pilot Name: Meaker
Base: Gravesend
Date: 12th August 1940
Type: Hawker Hurricane Mk1 (100Oct)
Marking: G for George
Serial: P2793
COMBAT FLIGHT RECORD
So,after being held up in Colditz Castle for two weeks,by the hun,which I can tell you was bally awful,I made my escape back to blighty with F/L Carstairs and F/L Fairfax,good chaps in all but by the end of the two weeks up,Carstairs was beginning to crack,bit of a poor show actually,the poor chap was obviously showing signs of what the C/O calls LMF(lack of morale fibre).
I would of shared my 'Callard and Bowsers' creamline toffees with him but I was down to my last six packets,and one has his own welfare to think of in times of pressure you know.
Colditz group shot,late August 1940,that big head,Bader fronts the group in the centre of the bottom row,myself,Carstairs and Fairfax are also in shot,but for security reasons,you'll just have to guess where we are placed.....needless to say,one of us by now was wearing more eye shadow than is acceptably allowed by RAF standards!!
Carstairs in his formidable escape disguise,by this time into his capture,his mind was really playing games!
Anyway,.....back to duty,I was finally reunited with the blaggards,I like call my friends at 501 squadron,a gruesome bunch,but many a 109 pilot has been witnessed to run from the scene of battle with the mere mention of their name.However, I am very proud to be associated with this bunch of reprobates,and to be back with the squadron was an honour indeed.
It was also an honour indeed,to be flying as wingman,to that stalwart of flying prowess,bravery and legend,the mighty F/O Teepee,a real old warrior to be hold!....We were also gifted the presence of LAC Toxic,a man,not a stranger to fear himself.
Ok,so there we were,ready,willing and certainly able to give the hun a really good bloody nose,or a damn good thrashing,trousers down and gloves off,as the C/O would have it.
The C/O barked the order for the off,and down the short strip of Gravesend we flew,and into the blue we climbed.....but wait,our intrepid Blue leader had problems,and had to join us at the rear,this was a very uncommon procedure I can tell you,and it threw me somewhat for a minute or two.
On composing one’s self and shaping up for a damn good fight,I now formed up on the C/O’s 3 o’clock and informed Blue 3 to form up on me,which in good 501 spirit he did.
We followed Red leader right into the attack of some Dornier Do17’s,somewhere over Deal,where upon all hell broke lease!
It seemed now every man was for himself,suddenly I was confronted by two very angy 109 pilots bearing down on my poor Hurricane Mk1 tail,and after taking a few hits I managed to evade my pursuers,miraculously it has to be said,and began to sort myself out again.
On composing myself,I could see in the distance a lone Dornier 17,and made chase after it,letting my aggressive head get the better of me.........after shooting this sitting duck down into the channel,I was again hunted down by another two angry 109 pilots.
Again I was able to evade their attack,but I suddenly realised my kite was the worse for wear,the engine had obviously taken direct damage and was starting to show it’s depreciation by spluttering,I would have tried to land it,but the head gasket had blown and so I had no other choice but to crash land it in a farmer’s field somewhere over Dover.
After picking myself up out of the kite and wandering aimlessly through the farmer’s standing crop of barley,I eventually found myself atop a farmer’s horse drawn cart and made my way back to Gravesend where upon the partying began.
Claims:
Destroyed: 1 x Dornier Do17
Probable: None
Damaged: None
Losses:
Pilot: OK
Aircraft: Not too good on this occasion,chief says the repairs alone will warrant a visit back to Hawker,just hoping the C/O won’t notice it’s disappearance off the roster for a while!
Squadron Code: SD
Pilot Name: Meaker
Base: Gravesend
Date: 12th August 1940
Type: Hawker Hurricane Mk1 (100Oct)
Marking: G for George
Serial: P2793
COMBAT FLIGHT RECORD
So,after being held up in Colditz Castle for two weeks,by the hun,which I can tell you was bally awful,I made my escape back to blighty with F/L Carstairs and F/L Fairfax,good chaps in all but by the end of the two weeks up,Carstairs was beginning to crack,bit of a poor show actually,the poor chap was obviously showing signs of what the C/O calls LMF(lack of morale fibre).
I would of shared my 'Callard and Bowsers' creamline toffees with him but I was down to my last six packets,and one has his own welfare to think of in times of pressure you know.
Colditz group shot,late August 1940,that big head,Bader fronts the group in the centre of the bottom row,myself,Carstairs and Fairfax are also in shot,but for security reasons,you'll just have to guess where we are placed.....needless to say,one of us by now was wearing more eye shadow than is acceptably allowed by RAF standards!!
Carstairs in his formidable escape disguise,by this time into his capture,his mind was really playing games!
Anyway,.....back to duty,I was finally reunited with the blaggards,I like call my friends at 501 squadron,a gruesome bunch,but many a 109 pilot has been witnessed to run from the scene of battle with the mere mention of their name.However, I am very proud to be associated with this bunch of reprobates,and to be back with the squadron was an honour indeed.
It was also an honour indeed,to be flying as wingman,to that stalwart of flying prowess,bravery and legend,the mighty F/O Teepee,a real old warrior to be hold!....We were also gifted the presence of LAC Toxic,a man,not a stranger to fear himself.
Ok,so there we were,ready,willing and certainly able to give the hun a really good bloody nose,or a damn good thrashing,trousers down and gloves off,as the C/O would have it.
The C/O barked the order for the off,and down the short strip of Gravesend we flew,and into the blue we climbed.....but wait,our intrepid Blue leader had problems,and had to join us at the rear,this was a very uncommon procedure I can tell you,and it threw me somewhat for a minute or two.
On composing one’s self and shaping up for a damn good fight,I now formed up on the C/O’s 3 o’clock and informed Blue 3 to form up on me,which in good 501 spirit he did.
We followed Red leader right into the attack of some Dornier Do17’s,somewhere over Deal,where upon all hell broke lease!
It seemed now every man was for himself,suddenly I was confronted by two very angy 109 pilots bearing down on my poor Hurricane Mk1 tail,and after taking a few hits I managed to evade my pursuers,miraculously it has to be said,and began to sort myself out again.
On composing myself,I could see in the distance a lone Dornier 17,and made chase after it,letting my aggressive head get the better of me.........after shooting this sitting duck down into the channel,I was again hunted down by another two angry 109 pilots.
Again I was able to evade their attack,but I suddenly realised my kite was the worse for wear,the engine had obviously taken direct damage and was starting to show it’s depreciation by spluttering,I would have tried to land it,but the head gasket had blown and so I had no other choice but to crash land it in a farmer’s field somewhere over Dover.
After picking myself up out of the kite and wandering aimlessly through the farmer’s standing crop of barley,I eventually found myself atop a farmer’s horse drawn cart and made my way back to Gravesend where upon the partying began.
Claims:
Destroyed: 1 x Dornier Do17
Probable: None
Damaged: None
Losses:
Pilot: OK
Aircraft: Not too good on this occasion,chief says the repairs alone will warrant a visit back to Hawker,just hoping the C/O won’t notice it’s disappearance off the roster for a while!
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron: No_615.
Squadron code: "KW"
Pilot name: Hollywood
Date: 12th August 1940
Time: 13.45
Base: Gravesend
Type: Hawker Hurricane Mk.1 100oct Rotol
Marking: F for Fat Frank
The remaining eight children, together with their mothers and fathers, were ushered out into the long white corridor once again.
"I wonder how Augustus Pottle and Miranda Grope are feeling now?" Charlie Bucket asked his mother.
"Not too cocky, I shouldn't think" Mrs Bucket answered. "Here – hold on to my hand, will you, darling. That's right. Hold on tight and try not to let go. And don't you go doing anything silly in here, either, you understand, or you might get sucked up into one of those dreadful pipes yourself, or something even worse maybe. Who knows?"
Little Charlie took a tighter hold of Mrs Bucket's hand as they walked down the long corridor. Soon they came to a door on which it said:
THE VANILLA FUDGE ROOM
"Hey, this is where Augustus Pottle went to, isn't it?" Charlie Bucket said.
"No", Mr Wonka told him. "Augustus Pottle is in Chocolate Fudge. This is Vanilla. Come inside, everybody, and take a peek."
They went into another cavernous room, and here again a really splendid sight met their eyes.
In the centre of the room there was an actual mountain, a colossal jagged mountain as high as a five-storey building, and the whole thing was made of pale-brown, creamy, vanilla fudge. All the way up the sides of the mountain, hundreds of men were working away with picks and drills, hacking great hunks of fudge out of the mountainside; and some of them, those that were high up in dangerous places, were roped together for safety.
As the huge hunks of fudge were pried loose, they went tumbling and bouncing down the mountain, and when they reached the bottom they were picked up by cranes with grab-buckets, and the cranes dumped the fudge into open waggons – into an endless moving line of waggons (rather like smallish railway waggons) which carried the stuff away to the far end of the room and then through a hole in the wall.
"It's all fudge!" Mr Wonka said grandly.
"Can we climb up to the top?" The children shouted, jumping up and down.
"Yes, if you are careful," Mr Wonka said. "Go up on that side over there where the men aren't working, then the big hunks won't come tumbling down on top of you."
So the children had a wonderful time scrambling up to the top of the mountain and scrambling down again, and all the way there and back they kept picking up lumps of fudge and guzzling them.
"Now I'm going to have ride on one of those waggons," said a rather bumptious little boy called Wilbur Rice.
"So am I!" Shouted another boy called Tommy Troutbeck.
"No, please don't do that." Mr Wonka said. "Those things are dangerous. You might get run over."
"You'd better not, Wilbur, darling," Mrs Rice (Wilbur's mother) said.
"Don't you do it either, Tommy," Mrs Troutbeck (Tommy's mother) told him. "The man here says it's dangerous."
"Nuts!" Exclaimed Tommy Troutbeck. "Nuts to you!"
"Crazy old Wonka!" shouted Wilbur Rice, and the two boys ran forward and jumped on to one of the waggons as it went by. Then they climbed up and sat right on the top of its load of fudge.
"Heigh-ho everybody!" shouted Wilbur Rice.
"First stop Chicago!" shouted Tommy Troutbeck, waving his arms.
"He's wrong about that," Mr Willy Wonka said quietly. "The first stop is most certainly not Chicago."
"He's quite a lad, our Wilbur", Mr Rice (Wilbur's father) said proudly. "He's always up to his little tricks."
"Wilbur!" shouted Mrs Rice, as the waggon went shooting across the room. "Come off there at once! Do you hear me!"
"You too Tommy!" shouted Mrs Troutbeck. "Come on, off you get! There's no knowing where that thing's headed for!"
"Wilbur!" Shouted Mrs Rice. "Will you get off that … that … my goodness! It's gone through a hole in the wall!"
"Don't say I didn't warn them," Mr Wonka declared. "Your children are not particularly obedient, are they?"
"But where has it gone?" Both mothers cried at the same time. "What's through that hole?"
"That hole," said Mr Wonka, "leads directly to what we call The Pounding And Cutting Room. In there, the rough fudge gets tipped out of the waggons into the mouth of a huge machine. The machine then pounds it against the floor until it is all nice and smooth and thin. After that, a whole lot of knives come down and go chop chop chop, cutting it up into neat little squares, ready for the shops."
"How dare you!" screamed Mrs Rice. "I refuse to allow our Wilbur to be cut up into neat little squares."
"That goes for Tommy, too!" cried Mrs Troutbeck. "No boy of mine is going to be put into a shop window as vanilla fudge! We've spent too much on his education already!"
"Quite right," said Mr Troutbeck. "We didn't bring Tommy in here just to feed your rotten fudge machine! We brought him here for your fudge machine to feed him! You've got it the wrong way round a bit, haven't you, Mr Wonka?"
"I'll say he has!" said Mrs Troutbeck.
"Now, now," murmured Mr Willy Wonka soothingly. "Now, now, now. Calm down, everybody, please. If the four parents concerned will kindly go along with this assistant of mine here, they will be taken directly to (the) room where their boys are waiting. You see, we have a large wire strainer in there which is used specially for catching children before they fall into the machine. It always catches them. At least it always has up to now."
"I wonder," said Mrs Troutbeck.
"So do I," said Mrs Rice.
And high up on the mountainside, one of the workers lifted up his voice, and sang:
"Eight little children – such charming little chicks. But two of them said 'Nuts to you,' and then there were six."
damaged 1 bomber
landed without damage, although got shot at in 2 instances by 109's from short distance, but both missed completely
Squadron code: "KW"
Pilot name: Hollywood
Date: 12th August 1940
Time: 13.45
Base: Gravesend
Type: Hawker Hurricane Mk.1 100oct Rotol
Marking: F for Fat Frank
The remaining eight children, together with their mothers and fathers, were ushered out into the long white corridor once again.
"I wonder how Augustus Pottle and Miranda Grope are feeling now?" Charlie Bucket asked his mother.
"Not too cocky, I shouldn't think" Mrs Bucket answered. "Here – hold on to my hand, will you, darling. That's right. Hold on tight and try not to let go. And don't you go doing anything silly in here, either, you understand, or you might get sucked up into one of those dreadful pipes yourself, or something even worse maybe. Who knows?"
Little Charlie took a tighter hold of Mrs Bucket's hand as they walked down the long corridor. Soon they came to a door on which it said:
THE VANILLA FUDGE ROOM
"Hey, this is where Augustus Pottle went to, isn't it?" Charlie Bucket said.
"No", Mr Wonka told him. "Augustus Pottle is in Chocolate Fudge. This is Vanilla. Come inside, everybody, and take a peek."
They went into another cavernous room, and here again a really splendid sight met their eyes.
In the centre of the room there was an actual mountain, a colossal jagged mountain as high as a five-storey building, and the whole thing was made of pale-brown, creamy, vanilla fudge. All the way up the sides of the mountain, hundreds of men were working away with picks and drills, hacking great hunks of fudge out of the mountainside; and some of them, those that were high up in dangerous places, were roped together for safety.
As the huge hunks of fudge were pried loose, they went tumbling and bouncing down the mountain, and when they reached the bottom they were picked up by cranes with grab-buckets, and the cranes dumped the fudge into open waggons – into an endless moving line of waggons (rather like smallish railway waggons) which carried the stuff away to the far end of the room and then through a hole in the wall.
"It's all fudge!" Mr Wonka said grandly.
"Can we climb up to the top?" The children shouted, jumping up and down.
"Yes, if you are careful," Mr Wonka said. "Go up on that side over there where the men aren't working, then the big hunks won't come tumbling down on top of you."
So the children had a wonderful time scrambling up to the top of the mountain and scrambling down again, and all the way there and back they kept picking up lumps of fudge and guzzling them.
"Now I'm going to have ride on one of those waggons," said a rather bumptious little boy called Wilbur Rice.
"So am I!" Shouted another boy called Tommy Troutbeck.
"No, please don't do that." Mr Wonka said. "Those things are dangerous. You might get run over."
"You'd better not, Wilbur, darling," Mrs Rice (Wilbur's mother) said.
"Don't you do it either, Tommy," Mrs Troutbeck (Tommy's mother) told him. "The man here says it's dangerous."
"Nuts!" Exclaimed Tommy Troutbeck. "Nuts to you!"
"Crazy old Wonka!" shouted Wilbur Rice, and the two boys ran forward and jumped on to one of the waggons as it went by. Then they climbed up and sat right on the top of its load of fudge.
"Heigh-ho everybody!" shouted Wilbur Rice.
"First stop Chicago!" shouted Tommy Troutbeck, waving his arms.
"He's wrong about that," Mr Willy Wonka said quietly. "The first stop is most certainly not Chicago."
"He's quite a lad, our Wilbur", Mr Rice (Wilbur's father) said proudly. "He's always up to his little tricks."
"Wilbur!" shouted Mrs Rice, as the waggon went shooting across the room. "Come off there at once! Do you hear me!"
"You too Tommy!" shouted Mrs Troutbeck. "Come on, off you get! There's no knowing where that thing's headed for!"
"Wilbur!" Shouted Mrs Rice. "Will you get off that … that … my goodness! It's gone through a hole in the wall!"
"Don't say I didn't warn them," Mr Wonka declared. "Your children are not particularly obedient, are they?"
"But where has it gone?" Both mothers cried at the same time. "What's through that hole?"
"That hole," said Mr Wonka, "leads directly to what we call The Pounding And Cutting Room. In there, the rough fudge gets tipped out of the waggons into the mouth of a huge machine. The machine then pounds it against the floor until it is all nice and smooth and thin. After that, a whole lot of knives come down and go chop chop chop, cutting it up into neat little squares, ready for the shops."
"How dare you!" screamed Mrs Rice. "I refuse to allow our Wilbur to be cut up into neat little squares."
"That goes for Tommy, too!" cried Mrs Troutbeck. "No boy of mine is going to be put into a shop window as vanilla fudge! We've spent too much on his education already!"
"Quite right," said Mr Troutbeck. "We didn't bring Tommy in here just to feed your rotten fudge machine! We brought him here for your fudge machine to feed him! You've got it the wrong way round a bit, haven't you, Mr Wonka?"
"I'll say he has!" said Mrs Troutbeck.
"Now, now," murmured Mr Willy Wonka soothingly. "Now, now, now. Calm down, everybody, please. If the four parents concerned will kindly go along with this assistant of mine here, they will be taken directly to (the) room where their boys are waiting. You see, we have a large wire strainer in there which is used specially for catching children before they fall into the machine. It always catches them. At least it always has up to now."
"I wonder," said Mrs Troutbeck.
"So do I," said Mrs Rice.
And high up on the mountainside, one of the workers lifted up his voice, and sang:
"Eight little children – such charming little chicks. But two of them said 'Nuts to you,' and then there were six."
damaged 1 bomber
landed without damage, although got shot at in 2 instances by 109's from short distance, but both missed completely
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron: No.64 Squadron
Squadron code: "SH"
Pilot name: Vas
Date: 12th August 1940
Base: Manston
Type: Spitfire Ia (100oct)
Marking: G
Claims :
Destroyed: 0
Probable: 0
Damaged: 1 x BF110
Pilot: OK
A/C: OK
Squadron code: "SH"
Pilot name: Vas
Date: 12th August 1940
Base: Manston
Type: Spitfire Ia (100oct)
Marking: G
Claims :
Destroyed: 0
Probable: 0
Damaged: 1 x BF110
Pilot: OK
A/C: OK
Re: Adlerangriff. Mission 23: 12th August (3. Manston 1400)
Squadron:No 615"County of Surrey"Squadron
Squadron Code:KW
Pilot name:Midge
Date:12th August 1940
Time:13.45
Base:Gravesend
Type:Hawker Hurricane mk1[100 oct]
Marking:C for Charlie
Serial No:2564
Gravesend --both 615 and 501 based here,and 64 based at Manston.Everything seemed quite,the Hun must up to some devilish plan.Still it gave me time for a bit of shuteye in the cockpit while we waited to see what buggers were up to.
We did not have to wait too long reports came in of 64 being attacked on the ground at Manston,and we were given the start up /form up call-- the take off was pretty nifty and we shook out in fine form as we gained height and headed south.
The boss,as always brought us into contact with the Hun right on the button, we got the"talley ho" and we dived down.i picked out a Do-17 on the far right--when i got a"Hurricane break ,break" call,i dropped the nose just below the horizon pulling a hard left turn and saw a 109 flash past my right wing diving.i came back around to have another go at the bombers who were by now a couple of miles ahead and around 2000ft above me when i spotted a Do17 trailing the main bunch and at co alt with me,i engaged him and got hits,i started pulling to the left when i got hit --everything went red the aircraft suffering severe damage i dropped down twisting to the right trying to head for Manston---then it all went black
claims:
destroyed:0
Probable:0
damaged:1--Do17
losses:
Pilot:Feeding the fishes
Aircraft:Housing the bloody fishes
Squadron Code:KW
Pilot name:Midge
Date:12th August 1940
Time:13.45
Base:Gravesend
Type:Hawker Hurricane mk1[100 oct]
Marking:C for Charlie
Serial No:2564
Gravesend --both 615 and 501 based here,and 64 based at Manston.Everything seemed quite,the Hun must up to some devilish plan.Still it gave me time for a bit of shuteye in the cockpit while we waited to see what buggers were up to.
We did not have to wait too long reports came in of 64 being attacked on the ground at Manston,and we were given the start up /form up call-- the take off was pretty nifty and we shook out in fine form as we gained height and headed south.
The boss,as always brought us into contact with the Hun right on the button, we got the"talley ho" and we dived down.i picked out a Do-17 on the far right--when i got a"Hurricane break ,break" call,i dropped the nose just below the horizon pulling a hard left turn and saw a 109 flash past my right wing diving.i came back around to have another go at the bombers who were by now a couple of miles ahead and around 2000ft above me when i spotted a Do17 trailing the main bunch and at co alt with me,i engaged him and got hits,i started pulling to the left when i got hit --everything went red the aircraft suffering severe damage i dropped down twisting to the right trying to head for Manston---then it all went black
claims:
destroyed:0
Probable:0
damaged:1--Do17
losses:
Pilot:Feeding the fishes
Aircraft:Housing the bloody fishes
