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Watch My Arse!

The third of six stories by Jack Stafford, RNZAF Tempest pilot, is aptly titled, "Watch my Arse!" In it, Jack recounts his first combat "op," in which he does exactly as he's instructed, but misses a few significant details of the mission.

by Jack Stafford

The Napier Sabre engine in my Typhoon roared.

I watched "Woe" Wilson sitting in the other kite. He signalled to me, released his brakes, and the aircraft started to move forward from the dispersal. As he taxied to the perimeter track his speed increased and he moved swiftly towards the western end of the airfield.

Feeling tense but more than ready to do the job in hand, I followed.

It all started on a cold, grey winter morning. Low clouds swept across the airfield and the pilots sat around the little stoves in the dispersals smoking, playing cards, and waiting. A quarter of an hour earlier I had been sitting with them when the Flight Commander, Frank Murphy, walked in. "Wilson, take Stafford and carry out a patrol along the French Coast from Boulogne to Dieppe. Some Spits went out to do a rhubarb a while ago and they should be coming out from France soon. You provide a bit of support in case they are intercepted. Have a look in all the harbours as you go down the coast for anything unusual in the shipping."

Frank looked at me. "Ready for your first show, Staff?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, my excitement rising rapidly. On operations at last! This was the culmination of all the training, all the waiting, all the hoping for acceptance, all the fear of rejection. Back from this and I would be an operational pilot.

Woe had been on the squadron for some time and had shown me consideration and friendship since my arrival a month or so earlier; I was glad it was him I was going with. Frank Murphy was a most able and astute leader; he probably knew I'd be comfortable and well looked after with Woe.

We picked up our Mae Wests and our parachutes, then we moved out to the aircraft. "Keep up with me, Staff," said Woe. "Don't lag or stuff around. I'll be busy enough without looking after you."

I nodded and asked, "Any particular instructions?"

"Yes," said Woe. "Remember you're here to make sure we don't get bounced by some cunning little Huns in their dangerous little Focke Wulfs or 109s…. Just watch my arse." We walked on in silence, each deep in his own thoughts.

Taking off for the First Combat "Op"
The green light flashed at us from the control tower. We moved onto the runway and turned into the wind. Woe looked across, his face obscured by the oxygen mask, and gave me the thumbs up. He turned his head back, and I saw him opening up, so I did the same. Side by side we thundered down the runway with breathtaking acceleration. Smoothly we left the ground, raised our undercarts, and climbed away into that overcast, threatening sky. I throttled back to stay with Woe and checked the airspeed indicator. 190 mph, and we were climbing steadily. Tangmere disappeared into the the gloom behind us as we scuttled across the countryside. We crossed the coast and dropped swiftly to a low level just above the waves. We went into cruise mode, 3,700 rpm, + 4 1/2 boost. Woe set course for France; I scanned the sky above and behind, watching, always watching.

It seemed no time 'till Woe called me up: "OK, Music Red 2."

Taking a Look at Enemy Ports
We climbed to just below cloud base, with the enemy coast ahead. As our Typhoons rose, the coast of France appeared. I took a quick glance, then swivelled my neck around, searching the sky above and behind Woe's rudder. We had almost reached the coastal sands when Woe called again: "90 degrees starboard, Red 2." We turned and started down the coast. At each port we swung in low over the roadstead and I would risk a quick look at the shipping below and the harbour buildings; it was all new to me. Then I would swiftly scan the sky that might hold a dozen Fw 190s looking for us or the returning Spits. At each new spot on my windshield or each imagined shadow in the clouds my pulse sped up. So we droned on towards Dieppe, intent on carrying out our instructions.

"Music aircraft Kenway calling. Are you receiving me, over?"

"Music Red one receiving you loud and clear," Woe replied.

"Return to base all Music aircraft, repeat, return to base Kenway out."

"Roger, wilco, out," said Woe.

"Spits must be home," he said to me. "Turning starboard onto 320 degrees." Smoothly we turned and started back across the cruel, indifferent, sullen, turbulent, all-devouring Channel. That narrow stretch of sea was the last resting place of so many warrior airmen. We flew back close under the clouds, ready to use it as a refuge if a squadron of Hun fighters appeared out of the mist with malice intended.

Woe watched his heading; I watched Woe's tail.

Woe's voice broke through the Typhoon's drone: "Turn on your IFF, Staff, England coming up." I threw the "Identification Friend or Foe" switch, a necessity to protect us from our own flak and perhaps our own patrolling fighters.

"No fighters in this weather," I thought.

The cloud base lowered and we crossed the English coast almost on the deck, slightly west of Brighton. Woe knew every inch of the south coast, and soon we swung low over Chichester and the Tangmere runway came into view. "Echelon starboard, Red 2," Woe called, and we roared along the downwind leg. Crosswind, lower undercarriage, green lights on. Flaps, and the Typhoon changed attitude. We approached at about 130 mph, crossed the perimeter track, pulled back on the sticks gently, and dropped like two feathers onto the runway side by side. Woe looked across at me and nodded; I felt that he was pleased. We kept a bit of throttle on and sped down the runway towards the 486 Squadron dispersal. We slowed to walking pace as the ground crew came into view, waving us into our parking sites.

I came to a halt and switched her off. The grinning mechanic was up on the wing as I wound back the hood. Still smiling, he helped me with the straps. "How did the first 'op' go?"

I grinned back at him even wider. "Just great!"

"Did you get a Hun?" he laughed.

"No such luck—never even saw one."

He patted my shoulder. "You will," he said.

Woe was waiting for me and we walked together to the dispersal. "Good show, Staff," he said, and he smiled. I felt warm at this unusual praise. I couldn't stop grinning.

All flying had been cancelled because of the weather, which had clagged right down. We entered the dispersal to find it jammed tight with pilots. Another Typhoon Squadron at Tangmere was paying us a visit. All heads turned to us as we entered. All knew it was my first "op." Frank Murphy was standing at the door to greet us and he shook my hand enthusiastically. I could almost love him. "How did it go?" he asked Woe. "Good," said Woe. "Piece of cake." The intelligence officer stepped up and spoke to Woe. The noise died down in the room."What did you see, Woe?"

"Several ships in the port at Le Treport, one leaving the roadstead. Bit of movement around Boulogne, but most of the shipping was at Dieppe."

"Did you get much flak?"

"Yes, quite a bit," said Woe. "Dieppe was the heaviest, but they hosed us a bit from all the other ports. Even got a bit on the coast."

What Bloody Flak?!
I stood there locked in amazement, my mouth open. Flak! What bloody flak? The C.O. of the visiting squadron must have noticed my obvious confusion and asked, "Did you see the flak, Staff?"

My mouth had gone dry, and almost inaudibly I answered, "No." He was smiling at me and at my answer; he started to laugh. Gales of good-natured laughter rocked the room. The good will towards me and my ready acceptance by all was infectious. Murph was killing himself laughing. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, "Staff, you're a bloody beaut!" Without knowing what we were laughing about, I joined in and laughed, Woe laughed, the Intelligence Officer laughed; everybody was in fits. Woe said, "He was watching my arse and doing it well." For no reason this produced more screams of laughter. It was just hilarious.

A Grim Souvenir
At that moment a ground staff man approached the dispersal. Murph went out to meet him. He came back with a jagged piece of steel in his hand. It was 3-4 inches long, all edges and points. It was grey-black in colour and it looked murderous, sinister, and pitiless. "This was just removed from your aircraft's spinner, Staff." He handed it to me. I took it silently and studied it. A chunk of German flak.

"Wouldn't look too good in your eye for a wart, Staff!" said a pilot. This initiated another dozen smart remarks, most offering possibilities as to where else it could have been stuck. The laughter was away again. My jaw ached, my sides ached. Everything seemed so funny….

With all the squadrons stood down, everyone slowly drifted away to the mess. I was swollen with pride. I felt that I was now a Fighter Pilot—not much of a Fighter Pilot, but a Fighter Pilot just the same. Sure, it was only the smallest of small shows, but we had intruded into enemy-occupied territory and returned.

It was the first step in my operational career. I was a fighter pilot in 486 Fighter Squadron, 11 Group, Fighter Command, Tangmere. Sure I was proud!

We went into the mess. I shouted everyone to a drink—everybody shouted me. We ate. I was becoming drunk. We left the station in a couple of cars. We went to "The Ship," a favourite watering hole just out of Chichester. It was a lost night, but I remember how it started, even now.

I treasured that piece of flak for many months. The war dragged on, and the combat became grim and grimmer as the months passed. Such souvenirs lost their importance as life became less secure and more precarious.