The Lady and Her Eagle

By Jack Conrad

The cold war began in the early years after World War Two. Established in 1947, the United States Air Force became a separate arm of the military and the transition from propeller driven aircraft to jets is the focal point of the story. Tommy Chandler and his English wife, Lady Caroline, are involved with these developments. When the Korean war breaks out, Tommy is ordered to take a squadron of the new jet fighter, the F-86 Sabre, to fight in that war. His one hundred mission are fraught with danger and success as he becomes a jet ace. The first of this kind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456759667

Jack Conrad

A native Of Indiana, Jack Gatton was born in 1928 in a small rural town in the southern part of the state. In his twentieth year he enlisted in the United State Air Force and was trained as a meteorologist. He served four years on active duty in weather stations in the US, the Caribbean and ultimately in the Western Pacific and Korea during that war. After an honorable discharged he settled in Kansas City where he attended the Kansas City Art Institute before embarking on a career as a graphic designer, illustrator and art director in ad agencies there and California. An avid interest in aviation led the author to earn a pilots license and enjoyed many hours aloft over a span of thirty years. He made a career change later in life and has been writing fiction for several years producing five literary works. The subjects of these are eclectic; action adventure, fantasy/supernatural, murder and historic aviation.

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© 2011 Jack Conrad. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 5/25/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-5966-7 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-5965-0 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011906622

Printed in the United States of America

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To all the aviation pioneers,

you made the world smaller.

"From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic,

An Iron curtain has descended across the continent…."

Winston Churchill, March 5, 1946

East Anglia, England

1941

(Prologue)

The young lady was properly attired for being on horseback…jodhpurs, boots, leather gloves and a white wool turtleneck sweater. She sat on her horse, a breed mare, riding with practiced style through a copse of trees on her family estate when she abruptly reined the horse to a stop and stared up into the azure sky. The sound of a laboring aircraft engine had caught her attention and she looked in the direction from which it came.

Suddenly an RAF Spitfire, trailing smoke, whooshed overhead and zoomed upward until it reached a higher altitude. She shaded her eyes with a free hand and watched in awe as the pilot stepped out of the cockpit to begin his fall to the ground. She held her breath until a white parachute canopy burst open, then watched anxiously as the pilot swung back and forth below it while he descended. Another aircraft, a German ME-109 circled the parachute twice then sped off toward the east. When the enemy fighter disappeared she guided her horse toward where she figured the Spitfire pilot would come to earth.

After several moments the young lady found the pilot lying on the ground below the parachute canopy that was tangled on several lower branches of a tree. She dismounted, then knelt beside the man and found him to be unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. He wore the blue uniform of the RAF with the crest of the American Eagle Squadron fixed to the left shoulder of his blouse. She unhitched the parachute harness, then quickly wrapped her silk scarf around his head and watched as his eyes fluttered open to gaze up at her.

Ah, you’re alive! she said. Hold this to your wound, my eagle, whilst I ride to the manor for help. We’ll get you taken care of straight away!

Contents

Part One

I

II

III

PART TWO

IV

V

VI

VII

VII

PART THREE

IX

PART FOUR

X

PART FIVE

XI

PART SIX

XII

PART SEVEN

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

Part One

A Pilot’s Progress

I

Europe 1945

(One)

He was mad as hell! Suspended in the heavy web harness beneath the billowing white parachute canopy, Lieutenant Colonel Tommy Chandler descended slowly, his loud curses carried away in the silence of the empty sky. Empty, except for a corkscrew spiral of oily smoke that marked the downward path of his mortally damaged aircraft.

Moments earlier he had been sitting comfortably in the cockpit of a twin-engine Lockheed P-38 Lightning, winging his way across France toward England at an altitude of twenty thousand feet. The first indication of trouble had been the sudden destruction of his starboard engine accompanied by flashes of tracer bullets whizzing by. Then the greenish-gray blur of a German Messerschmitt 262 Jet Fighter overshot him and arced up to disappear amongst layers of higher clouds. It was over in seconds, leaving him just enough time to jettison the cockpit canopy, then roll the Lightning on its back and stand on the seat to push himself out before the right wing collapsed.

Now, as he swung back and forth beneath the parachute canopy, Tommy cursed as loud as he could, lamenting his stupidity at being bounced so easily by the enemy pilot. Twisting around, he searched the sky for other aircraft, but found the only thing visible was the oily streamer of smoke that ended far below in the top of a layer of stratus cloud that stretched toward the horizon.

I hope there’s space under those clouds, he said aloud. All I need now is to break my legs because I can’t see the god damned ground!

Tommy stared down at the undulating cloud mass until he entered the opaque damp vapor. Subconsciously he bent his knees and tensed in anticipation for the inevitable encounter with whatever lay below.

When he emerged from the base of the cloud layer he was surprised to see nothing below but water. Ah, shit, he muttered. The channel, now I go for a swim!

He examined the whitecaps on the choppy gray surface to determine wind direction and twisted himself around until he was facing the wind. Thus aligned, he unlocked the quick-release safety cap on the single-point parachute harness and waited. Just as he was about to hit the water, he banged the cap with his fist and felt the harness and canopy jerk away before he slipped beneath the choppy waves.

Struggling upward in the dark icy water Tommy reached the surface where he gasped for air and coughed up the sea water he had swallowed. Then, with a frantic jerk, he pulled the two cords that activated the compressed air to inflate his yellow Mae West life preserver.

Once he felt secure of being held afloat, Tommy made sure he was clear of any entangling harness and shroud lines of his parachute canopy so it wouldn’t drag him down as it sank. With gloved hands numb from the cold, he groped for the strap attached to the Mae West, which secured the seat pack containing a one-man life raft. He snapped open the cover, pulled the locking pin from the valve handle, and twisted it open. In seconds the bright yellow raft inflated and bobbed in the water beside him.

Despite being warmly dressed for the cold May skies over Europe—long johns, wool trousers and shirt, winter flight coveralls and a leather A-2 jacket—the frigid cold of the Channel waters penetrated through these to his skin as he struggled to climb into the ever-moving dinghy. He finally clambered aboard and gazed about the horizon. The sea was empty—no surface ships and no aircraft flying beneath the low overcast.

Tommy shivered and hugged himself in a fruitless effort to warm up. Goddamn it’s cold! He thought. Wish to hell I could figure out which direction the sea was running. Am I drifting back toward France or to England? Oh, well, at least I’m out of the water. Try to get warm. What time is it? Watch still runs … Seventeen-thirty …Sun’ll go down soon, what then …? Then it’ll be dark you damn Hoosier!

Damn! he cursed aloud. Over five hundred combat missions and you let yourself get shot down like that, He thought. Welcome to the jet age, Colonel. You may not be the first to get your ass bounced by that new jet fighter, but you’ll certainly be mentioned in the history books. That is, if you survive this unplanned voyage to tell someone about it.

With a shuddering sigh, he curled up into a tight ball and lay in the small, bobbing dinghy as the sky darkened. Several times Tommy was sure he could hear the sound of motors but had no idea who they were or what direction they came from. After a while the rhythmic rise and fall of the Channel swells lulled him into a fitful sleep.

It was well past midnight when Tommy jerked fully awake. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. Then the subtle rolling motion of the raft reminded him and started him cursing loudly again. He soon stopped his self-pitying tirade since the angry ranting did nothing but disturb the tranquility of the night.

His muscles were stiff from lying so long in a tight fetal position. He struggled to sit up then held himself as high as he could by gripping the slippery rubber of the dinghy and gazed about looking for a light of some kind. Just enough starlight in the moonless night filtered through the overcast to faintly illuminate the sea around him. Tommy estimated the surface visibility at about fifty yards, but beyond that he could see little in the impenetrable darkness.

Guess I’ll miss the meeting, he muttered.

As deputy commander of his fighter group, Tommy had been ordered to represent his fighter unit and fly to England to meet with Fighter Command to discuss a program for transferring qualified pilots to the Pacific Theater as soon as Germany capitulated. Battle action on the continent had been such that the allied command considered that a German surrender was imminent. Today was the fifth of May and Tommy knew the Russians were fighting furiously into Berlin. Hitler was reported to be dead and high-ranking German officers were trying to negotiate some sort of an end to the fighting. The word was that the allies would settle for nothing less than an unconditional surrender.

In late 1944 Tommy’s fighter group had moved from England to France and operated out of a former German Luftwaffe airfield near Paris. During the winter battles in the Ardennes they had provided fighter cover for the continuing bomber raids on targets in Germany. They also flew ground support missions for the advancing allied armies. This spring of 1945 had been a very busy time for them. Now, by all indications, the end of the war in Europe was in sight.

Tommy let his thoughts range randomly until a strange sound in the darkness drew his attention. Rising and lowering in the faint breeze was a mournful howling that set the hackles on the back of his neck to tingling. He focused on the strange sound, turning his head this way and that until he settled on a direction from which it seemed to come. Then waited.

Several minutes passed until he realized that whatever was out there was coming closer. He could clearly hear water thumping against some heavy object. Then he saw it.

A large lifeboat materialized out of the gloom and the howling became more urgent and familiar. He smiled as he recognized the mournful sound to be a cat yowling loudly for attention.

Tommy paddled toward the boat and grabbed a rope that hung over the side dragging in the water. Pulling himself closer, he reached for the gunwale with both hands and heaved himself up so he could lean over and look into the boat. A large cat suddenly rubbed itself against his face then licked him several times. The lonely yowling was replaced by a deep, hearty purr.

Hi there, old chap. What’s a nice cat like you doing in a predicament like this?

The cat continued to rub against Tommy and purred as if to say, I’m sure glad to see you, mister!

Tommy chuckled as he clumsily pulled himself over the gunwale and rolled to the bottom boards where the cat eagerly climbed all over him. Scratching the cat’s head, he said, Hey, pal. I’m glad to see you too. Mind if I come aboard?

The cat gave its complete approval by lying on Tommy’s chest and continued purring loudly while licking his face.

Hold on, old chum. Let me secure my dinghy so we don’t lose it. Might need the emergency rations later.

Tommy quickly tied a lanyard from the raft to a cleat on the lifeboat then began examining the craft in the murky darkness. Except for the cat, it appeared devoid of life. Apparently, whoever had launched it had not been able to utilize it and simply abandoned the boat, leaving the poor animal to fend for itself.

The cruds, Tommy muttered in disgust. Left you on your own, eh, pal? Well, let’s see what we can do to survive together. Okay?

The cat sat on its haunches on one of the thwarts and watched Tommy unscrew the wing nuts that secured the cover of one of several storage chests situated around the boat. When Tommy opened it the cat hopped down to the floorboards and watched as he inspected the contents.

Hey, pal. Look at all this stuff. Tommy said comfortingly to the cat as he set out cans of food and water.

He found a supply of heavy wool blankets in another chest and brought out several, then quickly wrapped two around his own chilled body and made a bed for the cat with another.

Tommy opened one of the cans and said, I guess you’ll have to eat what I do, old chum.

The big cat quickly stuck its head into an open can of beans and began eating with gusto. Tommy opened another can of the ubiquitous ration and continued watching the cat eat while he fed himself. After they’d had their fill, Tommy curled himself up in his blankets and said, Not bad for a late meal, eh?

The cat ignored him. It perched on a thwart and began the feline ritual of cleaning itself. When it was finished, the cat curled up on the other blanket as close to Tommy as it could get and went to sleep. Soon, the only sounds in the dark night were the dull thumping of the rubber dinghy against the heavy lifeboat and the steady purring of a contented cat.

(Two)

The raucous squawking of seagulls brought Tommy out of a discomforting sleep where a kaleidoscope of aerial combat images had flickered through his subconscious. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the big cat lying on a forward thwart—one of five seats that were fixed at right angles to the centerline of the lifeboat. He smiled when he saw the cat’s tail twitching with anticipation as it gazed up at the circling birds.

Despite the heavy cocoon of blankets he had wrapped himself in the night before, Tommy was chilled by the dampness of his wet clothes and the sea breeze wafting over the boat. He was reluctant to disturb the fragile envelope of warmth that had accumulated from his body heat.

Brrr! Can’t lie here forever, he decided.

Cautiously he stood and balanced himself against the rocking of the boat, then stretched his painfully stiff muscles. The cat stood in response and arched its back with a shuddering stretch, then sat and blinked up at Tommy with its golden eyes.

Morning, old chap, Tommy said, giving the cat several friendly strokes on its broad head. He looked about the empty sea and examined the sky for passing aircraft. There were none, but patches of blue sky were visible through large breaks in the overcast and, with an aviator’s experienced eye, Tommy predicted that the day’s weather would be fair.

We’re going to have a nice day, pal. Maybe we’ll get picked up soon. What say we have some breakfast?

The cat watched as he selected several cans from one of the storage lockers and began opening them. Tommy smiled at the cat and said, I’ll have these peaches and you can have the syrup, okay? How about canned meat? We’ll share that too. Wish we could heat up some water. I could sure use a cup of coffee. Ah, well, come and get it, chum.

Tommy spooned a good portion of beef on a can lid and poured some peach syrup over it, then set it before the cat. The animal sniffed the food briefly and began eating the eclectic meal while Tommy ate his own ration. As he chewed on the peaches and salty meat, Tommy studied the cat. It was large, full grown, with a coat of short, raven black hair that glistened in the dapples of sunlight dancing across the water with the movement of the clouds passing overhead. Its muscles rippled as it moved and Tommy concluded that it was quite healthy.

I see you’re a Tomcat, old boy. What do you know? Two Toms in a lifeboat. Good title for a book, wouldn’t you say?

The cat ignored him and finished eating, then began cleaning itself while Tommy looked around the boat. It was large, about thirty feet long with seating for at least twenty souls. Oars were stored along the gunwales and, as he had discovered the night before, there was more than enough food and water for him and the cat. In the bow, on the deck boards, Tommy saw a pile of cat stool which, by the quantity, indicated that the cat had been adrift for some time.

You’ve been floating around in this thing for a while, haven’t you? How the hell have you survived?

The animal looked at him benignly and continued to clean itself. As it did so, Tommy discovered the remains of a large fish along with a pile of feathers and assorted bones lying in the scuppers below the thwarts.

Aha! That’s what you were doing when I woke up. You were on the hunt, waiting for one of those seagulls to land on the boat so you could catch it. How’d you catch the fish, though? It didn’t just jump in, now did it? Wish you could talk, old chap. I’ll bet that’s a fish story for the books!

Tommy finished his rough breakfast and began cleaning up the boat. Using one of the empty cans, he tossed the cat poop overboard then cleaned up the remains of the fish and birds. Finally he took two oars and some light line and rigged a clothesline.

I’ve got to get these clothes dry or I’m going to catch my death. I’m sure you won’t mind if I sit here stalkers under these blankets, do you?

The cat simply blinked his alert golden eyes at him.

Yeah, I know. I’m talking to a cat. Well, old pal, pardon my bare ass but I need dry clothes.

Tommy quickly disrobed and hung the wet clothes on the makeshift clothesline. The sea breeze started him shivering again, and he quickly wrapped himself in the blankets then sat on a thwart in the stern. When he was settled, the cat hopped up on his lap and curled up into a comfortable bundle.

Okay, pal. Now we wait. My stuff ought to be dry in a couple hours.

The lifeboat gently rose and fell with the easy swells and the tethered rubber dinghy bounced against the hull with a steady thumping sound. The somnolent movement made Tommy drowsy and he was soon deep in recollection as he sat petting the cat. An hour passed and he felt the need to talk. When his voice broke the breezy silence, the cat raised its head and looked at Tommy with blinking eyes as if to say, Well, if you must.

Why don’t I tell you how I got started flying, okay?

The cat rested its head on his big forepaws and gazed up at him with apparent interest. Tommy nodded and continued.

I was born and raised in southern Indiana. That’s a place in America, old chap. Anyhow; back before this war, Frank Donner, a good friend of my Dad’s, operated an aviation business at a small local airfield. He was an excellent pilot and had flown in the First World War. Well, I got to hanging around the field doing odd jobs, washing airplanes and such. One thing led to the other, and Mr. Donner got permission from Pop to start teaching me to fly. Wasn’t long until I earned my pilot’s license and began flying people and merchandise all over. In fact I spent more time in the air than hanging around home doing farm chores. Decided right about then that flying was what I wanted to do with my life.

The cat purred loudly as Tommy talked and with growing affection, he gently rubbed its thick fur.

By 1939 I was nineteen and my log book showed over seven hundred hours. I was proud of that, and I found out one day that Mr. Donner had told Pop that he’d never seen anyone that took to flying like I did. Guess I’m what they’d call a natural.

The faint sound of an airplane engine interrupted his reminiscing and he vainly looked up at the scattered clouds, hoping to spot it. After a moment the sound disappeared and with a sigh, he began talking again.

Mr. Donner and a mechanic had finished building a racing plane that year and asked if I would consider flying it if they entered it in the Thompson Trophy Race coming up in September at the National Air Races in Cleveland. I said I’d sure try, so I spent the month of August flying that little ship around the countryside practicing.

Thinking back to those days, Tommy pondered how fate had given him the penchant for flying airplanes and put him in the cockpit of that racer on the day of the big race. The ship was painted a bright red with white trim lines, and the open cockpit was barely large enough to accommodate Tommy’s lanky six-foot frame. Sitting in it, his broad shoulders rubbed against the spruce longerons of the narrow fuselage whenever he moved. He remembered the trepidation he felt at the time when it had become evident that he’d have a hell of a time getting out if he had to use his parachute and vacate the airplane in flight.

When we went up to Cleveland in September, everyone was talking about Germany invading Poland, Tommy continued. That was the beginning of the war and Mr. Donner thought we’d get into it one day. Well, I wasn’t very interested in whether war was coming, but I do remember being nervous as hell as I sat in that racer waiting for the starting flag to drop.

The apprehension had tied his stomach into knots and his leg muscles were cramping, making his feet bounce up and down on the rudder pedals. He had been so excited that he shouted over the engine noise to get the goddamn race going! Then, when the starter finally dropped the green flag, he had calmed down instantly and had become all business.

I pushed the throttle open and the ship began moving forward along with seven other racers bouncing across the grass trying to get up speed for takeoff. It had rained the day before, which delayed the race for twenty-four hours, and the field still had several soggy spots that we were all trying to avoid. Somehow, everyone got off the ground and we headed full bore for the scatter pylon. That Menasco liquid-cooled engine roared and my adrenaline was really pumping. I’m not sure how we all made it through the first few laps but somewhere in the eighth one I heard a loud crack. Some part in the engine had busted. Smoke came into the cockpit, then oil bubbled from under the cowling and sprayed all over the windscreen.

Tommy had experienced several close shaves since then, flying combat missions, but that event in the Thompson race was the one he recalled with the most clarity.

Nothing for me to do but pull up and grab enough altitude, so I could bail out. The momentum took me up to sixteen hundred feet, where I leveled off. I looked around and saw I was directly over the airfield. The engine hadn’t caught fire, so I made up my mind to try a dead-stick landing instead of jumping.

He vividly remembered spiraling down in the middle of the racecourse, keeping clear of the other racers and lining up for a landing. He made it okay but that ended his racing career.

Mr. Donner decided it was too damn expensive in those days to get involved with air racing. Plus, he didn’t want to be responsible for killing his best friend’s son. A year and a half later, I’m over here flying RAF Spitfires with the Eagle Squadron against the German Luftwaffe!

Tommy sat for a while stroking the cat, his thoughts strobing flashes of images—the pre-war flying—the wartime missions—people he had known and served with. He gazed about the empty sea, wondering where the air-sea-rescue boats that the Royal Navy and the U.S. Coast Guard were operating. During the war years they patrolled the channel waters looking for downed airmen. Even the Germans operated a few. Where were they? Tommy thought. Hell, the cat and I would even welcome one of the enemy’s boats!

Tommy watched the choppy water for a moment, then, with a sigh, he said, Well, pal this is getting serious, enough nostalgia for now.

He stood carefully as the cat jumped over onto another thwart and sat watching while Tommy checked his clothes. Hey! My stuff’s dry. Let me get these things on then we’ll see what we can do about getting rescued.

(Three)

By mid afternoon, Tommy came to the disturbing conclusion that it might be some while before they were found. When the German shot up his engine, he hadn’t had time to send out a Mayday signal before he bailed out. Now, sitting in the lifeboat somewhere in the English Channel, he hadn’t spotted any ships or aircraft except an occasional high-flying machine. He knew from experience that he and the cat would be invisible to the crews aboard those planes at the altitudes they were cruising.

After he dressed in his dry clothing that morning, Tommy had checked the signal locker and found a battery lamp that worked and a Very pistol with a supply of signal flares. He loaded the gun with a red flare and set it within easy reach on one of the thwarts. Next, he cut one of the blankets into wide strips and tied one end of each to the clothesline so they would flap in the breeze. He decided that this would perhaps improve the boat’s visibility. With those preparations made, Tommy sat on the rear thwart holding the Very pistol and keeping the spare flares handy. At once, the cat hopped up and made himself comfortable on his lap.

Let’s see now, Tommy said as he gently stroked the animal’s back. I was telling you about the Thompson air race. Well, Roscoe Turner was the winner and it turned out that it was the last big air race before the war. Mr. Donner and Roscoe were good friends so we hung around Cleveland for a few days. During that time I met a fellow named Clayton Knight. You may have heard of him. No? Well, he’s a famous magazine illustrator whose primary subject was airplanes.

As if in response, the cat stood in Tommy’s lap and arched its back in a mighty stretch. It rubbed its head against him then circled his lap until it found the right spot, and lay down again.

Anyhow, Tommy continued. "This Mr. Knight told me that he headed a special committee that was enlisting American pilots to go to England and fly with the RAF. They had in mind forming a group called the Eagle Squadron patterned after the Lafayette Escadrille of the First World War. He wanted to know if I might be interested. Well, I’d been hearing of the Eagles but in 1939 I wasn’t anxious to go to war.

I didn’t make a decision to join up until a year later. By then the Battle of Britain was on and all the news was about the RAF defending Britain from German bombers. The war in Europe was expanding and the thought of flying Spitfires and Hurricanes began to appeal to me. So, in my innocence, I Looked Mr. Knight up and volunteered.

Tommy scratched the cat’s head and sat in silence for a while recalling the trip across the Atlantic to England aboard an old cargo ship. They were part of a large convoy of assorted vessels that were being stalked by German U-boats. The few British sub chasers and destroyers escorting the convoy hadn’t been enough to prevent several ships from being torpedoed. Watching them burn and sink had frightened him quite a bit. The thought what the hell am I getting into? Crossed Tommy’s mind often during that slow voyage.

I was damned glad when that ship finally tied up at Bristol. As soon as I set foot on dry land, I followed the Knight Committee’s directive and took the train to London where I found the Air Ministry and reported in. During that first week, I met some other Americans who were there doing the same thing I was. We all got along fine and were eventually sent to be fitted for uniforms at Moss Brothers, a tailor shop on King Street. Then, after a few more days we were taken to the RAF reception center at Bournemouth.

Tommy gently lifted the cat off his lap and stood, stretching his stiff muscles. He carefully scanned the horizon. There were still a few clouds in the sunny sky but still no sign of a ship or an aircraft.

We must be drifting away from the shipping lanes, old boy, he said. A chill of apprehension struck him. What wind there was seemed to come from the north east? Hell! He thought. We could be drifting southwest toward the open Atlantic. Wouldn’t that be a lousy bit of luck?

Tommy opened a can of fresh water, took a long drink and set it down for the cat. He then opened another can of meat and beans and put a generous scoop out for the cat then sat munching on the rest.

My guess is we’re somewhere between Cherbourg and Southampton. If I remember my Channel geography correctly, we could be in this bloody boat for a long time.

The cat had finished eating and sat grooming itself while Tommy took a few more bites of his own ration.

You’re not too concerned though are you? he said. Long as you have food and water, you’re happy. Ah, hell, old chap, I’m damn glad I found you. Tell you what—if we ever get picked up, I’m going to see to it that you get a nice home far away from the water. Then maybe you’ll have a long, secure life.

He finished his cold meal and tossed the empty can overboard then his feline companion snuggled next to him and closed its eyes. Tommy’s thoughts drifted back to January 1941 and his early RAF training.

Boy! Those were exciting times, he said while gently rubbing the dozing cat. At Bournemouth we were issued flying clothing and equipment, then went through several days of military drill and indoctrination. Finally we were all posted to Operational Training Units. Two of us were sent to the OTU at Sutton Bridge, where we were taught the intricacies of military flying. Five weeks learning to fly the Spitfire. Circuits and bumps. Formation flying, aerobatics, gunnery and cloudflying then, most important, map reading, learning the geography of that part of England nearest the Channel and the coast of France. Five weeks and forty hours in the Spit and I was posted to 71 Squadron at Martlesham. There I received several more weeks training before going on operations.

Talk about the Spitfire, Tommy reflected enthusiastically. "Compared to that racing plane Mr. Donner built for the ’39 Nationals,