War Eagles by Col. James Saxon Childers

Author:Col. James Saxon Childers [Childers, Col. James Saxon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History, Military, United States, Europe, General, Germany, Aviation
ISBN: 9781787200876
Google: kozjDAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2016-08-09T03:01:41+00:00

About mid-channel we met our forces, homeward bound now with the wounded ahead, the damaged craft immediately behind, and the Navy deployed far behind, patrolling and guarding the rear.

The wing commander held us in a fairly tight wing formation. Enemy fighters were about. A squadron of them appeared. Gus Daymond, now that Pete had been shot down, was leading 71. Always looking for a fight, Gus maneuvered us for the attack, but the 190’s would not accept the challenge. They made only a feeble attempt to harass us, and once more Gussie screamed his contempt of yellow bastards who flew around in the sky just to look pretty and wouldn’t fight.

We did not know at this time that some two hundred and fifty of the German fighters and bombers had been destroyed, or damaged. We did not know that the vaunted Luftwaffe had suffered a telling and most humiliating defeat.

From up above we looked down and watched our convoy pushing its way homeward. Minesweepers were far out in front. Corvettes were twisting around, leaving queer patterns in their wake. Rescue launches were speeding about in search of pilots in the drink. I was thankful that the sea was calm, and as I flew in formation, weaving and twisting and watching for enemy fighters, I still had time to wonder about Pete and Mike.

Low clouds and rain squalls were approaching from the direction of the Isle of Wight. The sun was sinking fast, and we knew that soon the ships below would be alongside the cliffs of England and under full protection of darkness.

Remnants of Luftwaffe fighter staffels still circled very high above us, but none of them would come down and fight. They stayed far out of range, just perched in the sky, slowly circling like birds with outstretched wings riding the high currents.

It was dusk when we finally glided into our small drome near the Thames after our last patrol. Not knowing we weren’t going out again, the mechanics quickly rearmed and refueled while we stood by in readiness, waiting to be ordered out once more. But even before darkness had completely enveloped the Estuary and the coast of Kent, it was apparent that for the remainder of the nineteenth day of August the crack staffels were incapable of further effort. Any further bombing attacks by them could be handled by the RAF’s normal complement of night fighters.

We were finally released off the station with a signal of congratulations from the Air Marshal.

Eagle pilots move fast when released by operations. To us “release” means “vamoose.” Thus, it was not very long until, by devious routes through the blackout, we all arrived, a tired bunch, at The Black Swan.

Most of us were there having some pretty long drinks when the message came through: “Squadron Leader Peterson and Flying Officer McPharlin saved from the Channel and well!”

I can tell you that our cheers fairly lifted the roof—almost as high as our big naval guns had lifted those German buildings that day back in Dieppe.

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