At air bases across the south-east, Spitfires and Hurricanes are coming back to earth. The mechanics mob them immediately.
Tom Neil, now the battle’s only surviving fighter ace, recalls:
Quote My crew were excited when I returned, the charred gun ports a sure sign of action. Running towards me, their enthusiasm waned when my face told the story. Nothing? Hard luck, sir, they sympathised.
They hooked in the bowser and tore off the wing panels to rearm the guns with endless yards of bullets. Guns okay? I thought so; they didn’t stop, anyway. A man dragging oxygen in my direction. Engine all right, sir? I said that it was but thought fit to complain of oil from the airscrew…they agreed and set about inspecting the front, also for bullet holes. Had I been hit? I didn’t think so, but you could never tell. They searched – hopefully.
Not a great squadron success. Lunch arrived with combat reports, plates and food sharing the same table. I sat in my bed, eating. Not too happy with my life. Finally, I lay back and, still in my Mae West, slept. Like a log.
Just some old boy you wouldn’t look at twice int he Post Office now.