NIGHT FIGHT

Wairarapa Times-Age, 8 September 1941, Page 6

NIGHT FIGHT

END OF ENEMY BOMBER PILOT’S STORIES. FIRE IN THE SKY. Visiting a Royal Air Force station one night, Quentin Reynolds, whose voice is perhaps even more widely known than his writing, saw a German bomber end its career in the air, and tolls the story in “Collier's.” The aerodrome, a mile square, was occupied solely by night fighters—twomotored Defiants and Beau-fighters, as well as Spitfires; all painted black. It was a brilliant moonlight night. The single-motored Spitfires are used only on the brightest of nights. They land at a hundred miles an hour, writes Mr Reynolds, and they haven’t strong legs like the heavier twinengined machines. It takes a lot of piloting to land a Spit when you can’t see where you’re landing. Word came that over forty German planes were “coming this way.” One plane after another roared off. They all show lights when they take off. They circle the field once to get the sleep out of their motors and then they switch their lights off and go io work. They show lights on returning. The Germans do the same thing and often the R.A.F. night fighters try to guess what colour lights the Germans will show on a particular night. They will circle high over German airports, mingling with German bombers, showing the German landing lights, and then let them have it. It is a difficult operation but the night fighters have become very proficient at it.

THE SPITFIRE IS A LADY.

I stood with two pilots who hadn’t been sent up yet and we watched the planes circling. Twenty-four of them were up there. They wopld fly at different levels, forming a protecting wall 35,000 feet high between our airport and London. It was bright enough for the Spitfires to go up, and now they took off. Even the night couldn’t conceal the slim beauty of this greatest of fighting airplanes. The blunt Beau-fighters and Defiants are decidedly masculine-looking. The Spitfires looks like a debutante, eager-eyed, youthful, dressed for her first big party. In the distance the guns were roaring and occasionally the sky was studded with quick, golden flashes from the exploding shells. The guns nearest stopped and now we could, hear the German planes. The two pilots could tell the difference between their motors and the motors of the night fighters. Now and then we’d hear the unmistakable loud singing of a Spitfire. It has a sound all its own. The sky above and on all sides was almost filled With planes but, bright as the moon was, we couldn’t see any of them. Then we heard the rattle of ma-chine-gun fire. It is a quick, sharp bark, quite unlike the sound of other guns. A great drama was being played up there above us. German planes loaded with thousands of tons of high explosive were trying to get through to London. London slept all unaware.

“NEW KIND OF FLARE.” Then, ten thousand feet above and two miles to the east, a tremendous golden arid purple ball of fire appeared. It lit the whole countryside. It seemed to hang in the air for seconds. “That's a new kind of flare they’re dropping,” I said. The two pilots looked at me with pitying eyes. “That’s not a flare." one of them said, quietly. “That’s an aircraft on fire—-I hope one of theirs.” The light changed to sullen yellow and then suddenly dropped. It was hard to believe that it was a burning plane. It dropped and then suddenly diecT and then two seconds later there was a tremendous explosion. Its bombs had found ground. The world seemed very quiet now; the planes were very high and their motors sang a soft litany. The men were quiet. The C.O. smiled. “I hope we’re putting on a good show for you.” “It’s a good show,” I told him. “Was that plane one of ours?” “No, it was a Jerry all right." It was good to know that one of these men I’d been with all evening hadn’t got it. The hours went on. Dawn was breaking now and the pigeons were coming home to roost. One by one they approached, circled, showing their identification lights, and then settled down. It was 5 a.m. And the night's work was about over. A Spitfire landed and the pilot climbed out. NOTHING “PROBABLE” ABOUT IT. “I nailed one,” he said. “Made quite a blaze. Could you see it from here?” “You could see that one from London,” I told him. “They can’t call that one a probable,” he growled. He told me about getting it. He Was as casual as though he were telling of a movie he’d seen.

“I came up from belotv,” he said. “And just had time to get in one cannon shot. It was the luckiest shot I ever made, Mind you, if you hit a Jerry kite at all that’s good shooting. If you hit his petrol tank that’s a miracle. Anyhow, I hit his tank and the whole thing went up in flames. I was climbing as I shot and I zoomed over him. My hit got the full force of that blast, and damned if it didn’t turn us right over oh our back! It was pretty hot for 'about five seconds.”

“What did you do?” “I got the hell out of there quick,” he laughed. “I didn't know When those bombs were going off.” Later we got a full report of the night’s operations. -In all, the boys had got seven German planes. More important was the fact that they had prevented the German planes from reaching London. I drove back to London and went to my hotel. It was just 7 a.m. A sleepy-eyed charwoman scrubbing the lobby floor had just turned on the radio to hear the morning news. “There was some enemy air activity over the country last night. Seven enemy aircraft were destroyed by our night fighters. London had a warning which lasted four hours but not one enemy aircraft was heard over the city—” “I wonder,” the charwoman said sleepily, “if you can always believe those reports?” “You can believe that one, sweetheart,” 1 told her.