Pursuit of Passy Read online

CHAPTER III

  THE PHOTOGRAPH

  THE next link in this story occurred on June 16th, three weeks after my return from France. My leg was now quite fit again.

  “B” Flight were at readiness that afternoon and we were basking in deck chairs down at dispersal, chatting peacefully over a cigarette when the telephone rang. We sat up, suddenly alert. A second later the telephone orderly shouted, “Scramble Green Section, patrol base, angels ten.”

  “Come on, Peter!” said Johnny and we grabbed our Mae Wests off the chair and ran hard across to the aircraft. I jumped into the cockpit, started up and taxied out with Johnny and Hamilton just behind. We took off, and as soon as we were airborne I called up the controller in the operations room. “Hallo Ratter, Goblin Green One calling. Are you receiving? Over.”

  Ops. answered immediately. “Ratter calling Goblin Green One, receiving you loud and clear. One bandit is approaching Croydon from the south, angels ten. Vector one-two-five.”

  I swung on to course and started to climb rapidly south-east, all the time examining the sky ahead. The day was sunny but there was a fair amount of broken cloud and conditions seemed excellent for a reconnaissance aircraft to operate.

  We continued to climb on the course given and about 8,000 feet passed through some cloud and dodged round some more.

  It struck me that we'd be lucky to spot him in this.

  Ops. came on the R.T. again. “Hallo Goblin Green One, bandit has now turned south, angels ten, vector one-seven-o.”

  I turned on to 170° and acknowledged the message, peering eagerly among the towering clouds that surrounded us.

  We flew on for about ten minutes and began to feel rather anxious lest he should get back to France before we overtook him. But unless he was a fighter he could not hope to shake us off at the speed we were now travelling. His only hope lay in concealment.

  Ops. again, “Hullo Goblin Green One, you are very near him now.”

  We were still flying through a lot of broken cloud about 10,000 feet and I couldn't see anything.

  There was a sudden shout from Ham. “Hullo Green One, bandit on the left behind us.”

  I swung round and saw about quarter of a mile away a twin-engined bomber in a break between the clouds. We had already overtaken him as he was rather behind us.

  I turned hard left and went after him on absolutely full throttle. He disappeared in a cloud and then emerged again. We were closer now and I spotted the characteristic “bite” out of the rudder; it was a Heinkel 111. He saw us too, for there was a sudden burst of black smoke from both engines as the pilot opened up to full throttle and he dived away to the left towards a great bank of cloud.

  There was a wisp of grey smoke from the fuselage as the rear gunner opened fire. I opened up and gave a quick burst just to encourage him though we were still out of range.

  Damn, he's almost in the cloud! I fired a long burst hoping that it might do some good but the range was too great and he disappeared into the cloud. I went straight in after him but couldn't see him. Johnny's voice crackled suddenly on the R.T. I think he was talking to Ham.

  “There he is on your left.” I was still in cloud and couldn't see a thing.

  I emerged into clear sky again and looked round—not an aircraft in sight. I kept going south and noticed with relief that we were still over land. We must be getting fairly near to the coast.

  There was still nothing in sight. I rolled the Spit over vertically and looked down. By God, there he is! The Heinkel was about 2,000 feet below, just visible through a gap in the clouds. One engine was pouring out white smoke and he seemed to be losing height rapidly. Johnny and Ham must have shot him up pretty thoroughly though there was no sign of them. He must have shaken them off in the cloud.

  I dived down and as I came into range two black objects tumbled out of the fuselage and I saw a parachute drawing out as I flashed past. They must be getting out. But nobody else baled out and the bomber kept flying on quite steadily though still losing height.

  I came in very close and was just about to open fire when a flash of tracer went past my head. I immediately fired a terrific burst into the fuselage and starboard engine which was apparently still untouched. I fired all the rest of my ammunition and the return fire ceased; probably the gunner was killed. The starboard engine suddenly burst into flames and the Heinkel dived more steeply.

  I pulled away to watch it. The pilot still had some control and seemed to try and pull out of the dive. I caught one last glimpse of him rushing across the fields, a long trail of flame and smoke behind him, and the dark shadow on the ground moving swiftly forward as though to intercept him.

  He struck the ground with a tremendous explosion and seemed to disintegrate completely. Many pieces of burning wreckage were thrown forward along the ground, and a mass of black smoke arose from the fierce petrol fires. Well, that was that.

  I circled round a few times and watched the usual crowd of people appear miraculously from an apparently deserted countryside and start running towards the crash. Where they appear from I can't think.

  I turned back towards Northolt, and suddenly remembered how close those tracers had been. It had been a gallant but hopeless gesture on the part of that Hun rear gunner. He was dead now and he might have baled out with the others.

  I was only a few miles from Lympne and decided to land there and see if the Spit had been hit at all, so I turned off to the east and a few minutes later circled the aerodrome and came in to land.

  I was right about those tracers being close. A couple of armour piercing bullets had gone through my starboard wing but the engineer officer said it could be flown back to Northolt quite safely.

  I was just getting ready to leave when a car drew up and a middle-aged and portly flight-lieutenant hailed me and asked if I was the pilot who had shot down that Hun near Appledore. I said I was.

  “The police have just rung through,” he said. “I’m the station Intelligence bloke, you see. Do you want to come along and have a look at it?”

  I jumped in and we set off along innumerable country lanes and byways. After much questioning of local policemen and villagers we arrived finally in a lane crowded with cars, bicycles and eager sightseers. We left the car and forced our way past the throng to a gate where a couple of self-conscious soldiers were holding back the crowd.

  “Sorry, sir,” said the soldier. “We can't allow anybody through this gate.” My companion produced an Air Ministry pass which seemed to work wonders and we were allowed into the field.

  We walked forward a few yards and came across the wreckage of the Heinkel lying on a slope. It wasn't a very pleasant sight; I'd never seen a crash as bad as this before and I didn't like it much. My elation at having shot him down diminished considerably.

  The aircraft had been smashed completely and the wreckage lay scattered over a considerable area with the engines nearly a hundred yards from the first point of impact.

  An Army lieutenant approached us. “We’ve found two bodies so far,” he said cheerfully. “They’re over there. I don't think there are any more.”

  We walked with him across the field. The pilot was still lying where he had fallen, and as I looked at this broken tattered object which only an hour before had been a brave and intelligent man I realised as never before the utter waste and futility of killing people like this.

  My companion bent down, turned the body over and removed the parachute harness and then started to go through the pockets. He pulled out some letters, a notebook, a wallet and a badly broken watch and laid them on the ground. The notebook seemed to interest him. “Gay sort of devil, this,” he said. “Seems to have been having a very hectic three days in Paris last week judging by his diary and the girls' addresses he put down.”

  He picked up the wallet, opened it and took out some photographs. He glanced at them one by one and handed them over to me. There were several photographs of girls, one sitting in a car, another skiing and so on.

  He handed
me another photograph. “That’s possibly this crew,” he said.

  It showed a Heinkel with several men posed in front of it. They wore flying kit and were evidently the crew. In the background was the corner of some aerodrome building with one or two men standing about.

  I was looking at the group standing in front of the Heinkel, trying to recognise among them the man lying at my feet when I realised with a sudden shock that one of the faces in the background was strangely familiar. Now where had I seen that man—? Got it! The scene at Abbeville come flooding back into my mind and I realised that the man in the background was Passy.

  I began to examine the photograph with the keenest attention. What had happened was fairly obvious. The little group had posed in front of the Heinkel and Passy, standing perhaps twenty yards behind with only the side of his face showing, was obviously quite unaware that he was being included or even that a photograph was being taken at all. He was standing with a Luftwaffe officer evidently engaged in a conversation. The photograph was very sharp and clear and I was quite certain that it was Passy.

  I began to think furiously. Group Captain Leighton must hear about this as soon as possible. What else could we learn from the photograph? If we knew the date and place at which it was taken we should have some idea of Passy's whereabouts. We couldn't interrogate the pilot—oh, but of course two of the crew had baled out. They must be interrogated immediately.

  I turned to the flight-lieutenant and led him a few paces away from the little group of soldiers. He looked rather mystified.

  “Listen,” I said. “I’ve just spotted something in this photograph which may be very important. You see this man”—I indicated Passy with my finger—“Well, he was involved in a rather fishy business in France that I happened to see and I know Air Ministry Intelligence are very interested in him and his movements. We must find out when and where this photo was taken and tell Air Ministry immediately. Can you arrange for the fellows who baled out to be interrogated as soon as possible, and find out, without appearing to emphasise the point, all about this photo and what they know of this man, and then get on to Group Captain Leighton at Air Ministry and tell him all about it.”

  “I see,” he said. “I’ll get cracking immediately and then get through to 11 Group. They'll see about Air Ministry being informed. Now, I wonder where those two Huns are? They've probably been picked up by now.”

  We walked back towards the gate and met a rubicund and very hot police inspector, just coming in with his bicycle.

  “Afternoon, inspector,” said my companion, “Do you know anything about two Hun airmen who baled out from this machine?”

  “I was just coming to see you about that, sir. My fellows have picked up two Germans about four miles away and they're on their way now to the Police Station. I came along to see if there are any more to be accounted for.”

  “There are a couple of dead ones here,” I said, “it looks as if we have got the lot.”

  We walked back to the car, forced our way through the crowd in the lane and drove back to Lympne where the flight lieutenant dropped me and went off to see the prisoners. I returned to my Spit and flew back to Northolt.