France - Chapter 3

“Sir, you're plane is ready at the French depot”, reported James. After my crashlanding last week my personal aircraft was send to a nearby French airfield, where our ground crews could use their material to repair my fighter.

I hitched a ride with a sergeant who had to drop off some documents at the airbase. The French are an amicable lot. Off course their country is invaded, but when they have guests they do take time to share a cognac or two.

Finally after several cognacs I took off, rocking my wings to say goodbye to my French brothers in arms. Their airfield was much bigger then ours and certainly they would get a lot more attention from the Germans then our tiny strip.

In training they keep repeating that you need to check your six, especially when you're flying alone. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a dark figure speeding right to me. Automatically I threw my hurricane in a sharp turn. Tracers flew through the sky were once my aircraft; I got a Gerry on my tail.

The lone Me-109 pilot flashed underneath my wings, immediately pulling up into a steep climb. I was in serious trouble. The German used his superior speed and height advantage to make slashing attacks on me. The only thing I could was keep an eye out and evade his attacks.

I tried to climb towards him and kept my nose pointed towards him in hope of getting a lucky head to head shot, but the German new his business. He never stayed on my altitude. Finally I knew I could only do one thing: make a run for it.

As soon as the German pulled up from another slashing attack, I rolled my fighter over and dove straight for the deck. I changed my course, in the hope that the German would loose sight of me. With the throttle wide open, I raced over the French countryside.

Finally I spotted our airfield in the distance. I glanced a final time over my shoulder, no German to be seen. But I did take any risks and blast straight for the runway. I lower the gear at the maximum allowed speed, dust is kicked up the wash of my propeller hits the ground.

I touch the ground at breakneck speed. Luckily for me we use this old road as runway, which is longer then a traditional runway. My aircraft rolls to a complete stop, way beyond what we normally consider as the threshold of the runway. Eventually I have to taxi all the way to the airfield.

As I clamber out of my cockpit, I notice the little tremble in my hands which I quickly hid from my fellow pilots. This was my first contact with a German fighter and I never have been so scared in my life. I wonder whether it was a good idea to volunteer for the fighter corps.

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