Moon Squadron by Tickell Jerrard

Author:Tickell, Jerrard [Tickell, Jerrard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Goodreads: 17828677
Publisher: Endeavour Press Ltd.
Published: 2013-08-04T23:00:00+00:00

Directly and indirectly, the weather remained one of the greatest dangers. It and it alone was the cause of ‘Whippy’ Nesbitt-Dufort's sojourn in Occupied France.

On New Year's Day, 1942, Whippy, who had by now been promoted to Squadron-Leader, was detailed to take two Joes and their luggage to a point in Occupied France. As always, he studied the route meticulously and, as 138 Squadron's most experienced pilot at this sort of thing, satisfied himself that, barring accidents, he could safely make an appointment to meet me in the Silver Cross for luncheon on January 2nd. We welcomed the two Joes on board with a casual courtesy born of confidence and his Lysander was airborne at 7.15 p.m. It was a perfectly normal easy flight out-the German flak batteries were obviously too busy having New Year celebrations to stand to their guns-and Whippy arrived at his destination to the second of time. The marked, torch-lit runway was as smooth as tarmac. His two passengers hopped out with profuse thanks for an uneventful flight and two new passengers hopped in. They had rather more luggage than Whippy had expected and the weather that had been so fair when they left England was clouding over. Never mind. If the journey home wasn't going to be a piece of cake, it would at least be a slice of bread and butter.

He waved a cheerful farewell to the reception committee, wished them and France a Happy New Year and took off successfully. Already a thin rain was falling. As he flew on, the clouds seemed to acquire the texture of an army blanket and the rain became heavy. In a matter of minutes, the weather deteriorated sharply and the downpour was torrential. Whippy tried to use his radio and then realised that it was unserviceable. Not so good. The weather, already bad enough to cause concern, worsened. With ten-tenths cloud at seven hundred feet, Whippy was forced to resort to the sort of flying he knew so well. He began hopping the hedges, flying dangerously low in extremely bumpy and turbulent conditions. Soon a thin coating of glaze-frost formed on his windscreen and he decided that the only thing he could do was to climb once more and get above the cold front. From a direct reckoning position fifty miles south of the Seine, he set course for Beachy Head. He was still in thick, opaque cloud and conditions were severe. Ice had formed on the engine intake and, far more alarming, he saw a good four or five inches of solid ice on the leading edge of the slot. At eight thousand feet, the aircraft, for all practical purposes, became uncontrollable. There was nothing else for it. Whippy turned in the cockpit and yelled to his passengers to bailout. There was a fearful noise going on and it may be that they didn't hear him. In any case, they stayed put and a good thing too! The pilot turned on a reciprocal course and,

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