nworm: переводы

→There were two dull, blue glim lamps at either end of the field on which you lined up your landing. If you successfully cleared the fir trees, you then pumped the throttle to clear the last of the blinding sparks from the engine. Sitting about five knots above your stall speed with wheels and flaps lowered, [48] holding 100 feet, you waited for the first glim lamp to slip by. As it disappeared under your port wingtip you counted to three, pushed the stick forward and then heaved it back in to your stomach. Accordingly the aircraft pitched nose down and then reared up in readiness to touch down. If you got it right, you made close to a three-point landing as desired.[>]

→Concealment of the airfield by night was obviously of the utmost importance. Consequently our initial guidance to the field was achieved by flying a bearing and distance from a beacon that was situated away from Cranage. We would be given these directions in our briefing and would write them clearly on our hands. Having flown the required heading, we would fix our position upwind over the field at around 1000 feet and buzz around like a swarm of low level insects. Using a Morse code key we would flash our aircraft identifier, a single letter, from a belly-mounted light. On seeing this light, the ground crew would signal you with a shielded green light to authorise an approach. Inherently the ground signaler was an inexperienced sergeant pilot or pilot officer. Understandably, these chaps were often rather twitchy about firing off their light into the night sky, thinking it an invitation to the Hun. With twelve, or so aircraft keen to get back on the deck you were fortunate if only one acknowledged the signal and started a descent into the confines of the approach. You could easily find yourself in company with unlit squadron mates who were just as desperate for terra firma. If this happened, you hoped the trusty 'flare-man' noticed and gave you a red light, in which case you both initiated a 'go-around' and attempted another approach.

→Returning to the airfield was also a challenge. Actually, it was more like a descent into hell. Given the proximity of the barrage balloons, an absence of radio communications from the ground, a tree-bordered airfield, no external aircraft lighting and always a minimum of fuel, it is a wonder that any of us ever made it down again.

→Where we should fly and at what levels was all predetermined at one of our radar installations. They could spot the inbound bombers well in advance and vector us to their position. For their part, the German bombers employed a 'blind' bombing system. This involved crossing a pair of beams generated by their ground stations with the point of intersection providing the queue to drop the bomb-load. Fortunately, our radar stations were able to 'bend' the beams and deceive the bombers into delivering their payload over the hills rather than [47] the inhabited areas. To further complete the ruse, large fires were set in the wilderness to give the impression of a burning city. On a lighter note, the WD & HO Wills cigarette factory had caught fire during one raid and the aroma wafted across to Cranage. As an avid smoker in those days, one need only step outside and draw back to fill the lungs. Personally, I was a Lucky Strike smoker but the free prevailing wind was fine by me.

→Once airborne, the modus operandi involved the stacking of aircraft above the burning cities of England. This layering of aircraft was termed the 'Jacobs Ladder' and we would fly at levels above Angels 12 hopefully to remain out of the range of our own anti-aircraft batteries. Separated by a mere 500 feet, up to ten fighters would fly along pre-designated routes and look earthward for enemy bombers silhouetted against the glow of the overcast or the inferno of devastation below. Additionally, a spare pair of Hurricanes may be freed up to patrol at will, clear of the ladder. On the rare occasion that we managed to trap our foe, our dive to attack would often only serve to put us at the mercy of our own ack-ack as the bomber slipped away unscathed into the veil of darkness.

→One's vision at night was of paramount importance in these operations. When exposed to bright light, the pupils contract and subsequently take a prolonged period to dilate and adapt to darkness. With this in mind, there was an emphasis on the preservation of one's 'night vision' when flying cat's eye operations. As with so many of our good intentions, the execution let us down. Through the night we would eat from the bowls of carrots positioned around the mess and dispersal, while wearing sunglasses to protect our sight. When called to scramble we would no sooner have clambered into the cockpit than a flurry of torch beams would flash in your face as the airmen set about strapping you in. If this hadn't totally destroyed your night vision, the barrage of flames licking back from the Merlin's exhausts on starting up would be sure to do the trick.

→Conditions were extremely hazardous for flying as the winter nights were characterised by low cloud mixed with the heavy pollutants from the industrial region. To worsen matters, the airfield was a grass field surrounded on all sides by 100-foot fir trees and only six miles from the lethal barrage balloons [46] hovering over Crewe. It was very early days for night fighting and there was no manual for the conduct of operations. We were entering uncharted waters and the early techniques were far from successful. For all of the time, energy and manpower expended, we had minimal success.

→To date I had a grand total of 434 hours experience, with a mere seventeen at night. I was classed as a 'fighter pilot-day', which meant the conditions that I had flown in at night were generally clear. A full moon was preferable and at least twelve miles visibility, though this was rare given the industrial refuse that filled the skies. My instrument flying experience was limited as well and had mainly taken place in my initial training, stuck under a canvas hood in a Hawker Hart by day. Telltale beams of sunlight would leak in through the cracks around the makeshift shroud to give one an idea of which way was up, but there were no such luxuries now. These were full blooded night operations in the worst of English weather.

→[45] At Cranage the squadron motto reflected reality: 'We Prowl by Night'. 96 Squadron's reformation stemmed from the need for more night fighters to counter the ever increasing nightly blitz, particularly on the docks and factories of Liverpool. Armed with our trusty Hurricanes and doused in an all black paint scheme, we were designated as 'cat's eye' fighters to further emphasise the nocturnal role we were to play. The newer Hurricane Mk lis packed a punch with four 20mm cannons projecting from their wings, while firepower for the Boulton Paul Defiant consisted of a gunner stationed in a rear 'ball turret'. My time with 96 Squadron was to prove one of the most dangerous postings I was to experience and the enemy only made up one aspect of the challenge.

→Away from the front line, McGlashan was seconded to BOAC to fly airliners out of Cairo, tasked to ferry all manner of aircraft at the war's end and serve Cyprus at the height of a very nasty campaign. It is a journey of tremendous diversity, punctuated by a series of close calls and inevitable losses. Haifa century later, retired and living in Australia, Kenneth McGlashan was drawn back to 1940 with the discovery of his crashed Hurricane surfacing through the sands of Dunkirk. In an emotional pilgrimage, he is reunited with the steed of his youth and its bullet-ridden cockpit.

→The next day, an engineering crew led by a flight sergeant, or 'Chiefy', had arrived at the scene and removed the mud-catching fairings from the Maggie's wheels. On my arrival, I climbed in and fired the Gipsy engine back into life. Ready to depart, no increase in power would budge the aircraft: she was stuck fast. I throttled back and yelled to the gathering of spectators, "Give me a shove!" In response to some enthusiastic shoulder power from the locals, the Magister started moving only to bog down again at the next sodden spot. My heart was in my mouth until I finally got a run on, spraying my willing assistants with mud. After a very hairy ground roll, and a little dodging, I pulled the stick back into my stomach and fed in a trickle of flap to eventually rise from the mire. Airborne and on my way to my new base, my flight eventually concluded at Cranage, home to 96 Squadron RAF.

→The famed Blackpool Tower stood above the murk and allowed me an opportunity to fix my position. Cranage was fogged out, as was the nearest alternative, Squires Gate. With daylight rapidly abandoning me, my options were disappearing at speed when a hole began to break in the fog, just north of Blackpool. I wheeled the Magister over the break and sighted a small, boggy field below. Before the opening had an [44] opportunity to close, I flew the Magister down and prepared for yet another unscheduled landing. Peering through the poor visibility I guided the little trainer down, completing my pre-landing checks as I went. With a landing in the field ahead assured, I shut the engine down and watched the propeller come to a halt in a horizontal pose. Washing the speed off, I touched down without event and rolled across the lush pasture. In doing so, the small wheels of the 'Maggie' began to become inundated with mud, mud and yet more mud. Whilst serving to slow the aircraft down, the bogged wheels eventually seized up to such a degree that instead of merely stopping, the Magister ever so gently toppled forward to come to rest on its nose. With the propeller safely stopped, fortunately no damage was caused. I unstrapped and made my way to signs of civilisation where I was able to call the RAF station at Squires Gate and organise a bed for the night.

→My time in Ireland came to a close, along with the year of 1940. My next posting was to the newly re-formed 96 Squadron at Cranage, near Crewe and I was permitted to borrow a Magister to make my way to England. Departing Aldergrove and crossing the Irish Sea was fine, but as I approached the English coast it was obvious that conditions were far from ideal. The moist coastal air had melded with the opaque industrial smoke of Merseyside, resulting in a good old pea-soup fog that extended well inland.

→Throughout this endless period of frustration at Aldergrove, we were held in readiness for an operational role that fortunately was never needed; the destruction of the Irish Air Force. The task had been drafted on the eventuality of a German invasion of England and Southern Ireland. Fears of Southern Ireland surrendering its neutrality and aligning with the Axis forces were very real at the time. Years later, whilst at staff college, I would be shown a pier on the Irish coast which I was informed had been used to supply German U-Boats. In the midst of such tensions we had been briefed how to ensure the destruction of Ireland's air force though, luckily, the situation never came to pass. This was much to the relief of our own Irish pilots who, like so many of their countrymen, had nobly volunteered to serve with the British forces.

→It was a bloody lesson learnt the hard way to an extreme and too many men died at the hands of poor strategy. We were practicing antiquated, suicidal methods whilst our enemy had recognised the dawn of modern aerial combat. I don't remember any specific edict changing our approach, but many of those who had been on the receiving end in France started to unofficially adopt the enemy's style. We also needed heavier armament as the Browning guns would often ricochet off the enemy if the angle wasn't right to penetrate. The Hurricane was later equipped with four 20mm cannons and these packed the punch to create terminal damage when the shots landed.

→At the same time, our foe was adopting a thoroughly different approach. Tried, tested and true through the Spanish Civil War and the subsequent Blitzkrieg, our opponents hunted in a 'Finger Four' made up of two pairs. Unlike our rigid sections trapped in straight and level flight, the Luftwaffe fighters swept around the sky in an unrestrained, fluid motion. They were constantly able to check their tails for any approaching fighter and were not locked into any predictable manoeuvres. They would fill the sky with a gaggle of pairs [43] making them efficient predators and difficult prey.

→[<] Be it fighter-to-fighter or attacking bombers, flight at such close quarters increased the risk of collision and committed us to slow steady movements, which made us vulnerable targets. The situation was aggravated by the demands of such flying. In a vie, when the leader wasn't trying to avoid flying into the section in front of him, he was responsible for looking for the enemy ahead. Meanwhile, as the other two in the section jostled to tuck in behind the leader's wings, they were supposedly responsible for keeping a lookout behind. There we were, a neat little parcel saying, "Come and get us." And with no-one watching, get us they did.

→Stemming from aerial combat of The Great War, tight formation was necessary to allow the section to communicate using hand signals. Even so, when the air battle erupted it was every man for himself and a 'dogfight' ensued. The advent of radio communications negated the need to fly in each others pocket, yet we continued to fly formation in tight sections. With the vie of three forming the base unit, the section, our compact little v's were ideal for airshows, not modern combat.[>]

→Formation training made up a high proportion of our early fighter training and was the cornerstone of fighter command philosophy. Unfortunately, the all-consuming obsession with formation, formation, formation was to prove costly and not merely in the context of training at Aldergrove. It was after a substantial period of time and a number of bitter experiences that I came to a fundamental assessment of our strategy. The entire approach to fighter tactics at the commencement of World War Two was flawed.

→Ginge Mowat was a New Zealander and a little older then Pennington and I. Following the incident, as 'B' Flight commander, he generously gave Penny and I leave to celebrate my birthday in Bearsden. We could hardly pack quickly [42] enough, given our unexpected windfall. Surprisingly, when we returned a week later, the inquiry into the landing incident had already been held. We hadn't been called to give evidence and no official mention of the collision was to surface again. One can only wonder at the timing of such generosity.