From Nine Lives

BY Alan C. Deere

During World War II New Zealander Alan C. Deere flew Spitfires for the RAF and was credited with destroying twenty-two German aircraft. The excerpt that follows from his book. Nine Lives, is one of the most harrowing aerial combat survival stories in print. Deere had narrowly survived a midair collision with another Spit several weeks earlier, but on July 11, 1940, fate dealt him the card again. This time the other aircraft was German. A nose-to-nose pass, both pilots pouring shells at the other, neither willing to break off — this not-uncom-mon scenario usually resulted in a spectacular collision that instantly launched both men into eternity. Miraculously, the gods granted Deere another reprieve. Here is the way he remembered it.

July 11th was particularly hectic, and both

Flights flew continuous convoy patrols throughout the day. “B” Flight was engaged on two occasions, with losses on both sides. On the fourth trip of the day I ran into trouble while leading my flight to investigate what was reported as unidentified activity five miles east of Deal. We had just crossed the coast at a height of 1,500 feet when I spotted an aircraft flying at wave-top height. It was a seaplane painted silver, and from a distance there appeared to be civilian registration letters painted on the upper surface of the wing. I was wondering what to do about this unexpected discovery when Johnny burst through on the R/T.

“Red Leader, there are about a dozen 109s flying in loose formation, well behind and slightly above the seaplane.”

“, Johnny,” I replied, “that makes the seaplane enemy so far as I am concerned.”

The camouflaged 109s were difficult to pick up against the gray background of the sea and it was a moment or two before I could locate them.

“Okay, Yellow Leader, I see them. You take your section and go for the seaplane. We’ll try and distract the escort; they don’t appear to have seen us as yet.”

I ordered Red section to follow me and.

Banking around to get behind the enemy fighters, dived into the attack. The Huns soon spotted us, or perhaps Johnny’s section diving toward the seaplane, for as we leveled out behind them, the leader split his formation in two. One half broke upward and to the right in a steep turn while the other half performed a similar manoeuvre, but to the left. “No fool this leader,” I thought to myself. “That’s a smart move.” I remembered this manoeuvre later on when the RAF was on the offensive, and used it with telling effect against defending German fighters.

The Hun leader had timed his break perfectly and he had certainly put us at a disadvantage by splitting his force. There was only one thing to do: break formation and have a go, each pilot for himself. We were outnumbered by about six to one and were more likely to confuse the Hun in this way, thus diverting attention from Johnny, who had just given the order for his section to attack the seaplane.

Fastening on to the tail of a yellow-nosed Messerschmitt I fought to bring my guns to bear as the range rapidly decreased, and when the wingspan of the enemy aircraft fitted snugly into the range scale bars of my reflector sight, I pressed the firing button. There was an immediate response from my

Eight Brownings, which, to the accompaniment of a slight bucketing from my aircraft, spat a stream of lethal lead targetwards. “Got you,” I muttered to myself as the small dancing yellow flames of exploding “De Wilde” bullets spattered along the Messer-schmitt’s fuselage. My exultation was shortlived. Before I could fire another burst two 109s wheeled in behind me. I broke hard into the attack pulling my Spitfire into a climbing, spiraling turn as I did so, a manoeuvre I had discovered in previous combats with 109s to be particularly effective. And it was no less effective now; the Messerschmitts literally “fell out of the sky” as they stalled in an attempt to follow me.

I soon found another target. About three thousand yards directly ahead of me, and at the same level, a Hun was just completing a turn preparatory to reentering the fray. He saw me almost immediately and rolled out of his turn towards me so that a head-on attack became inevitable. Using both hands on the control column to steady the aircraft and thus keep my aim steady, I peered through the reflector sight at the rapidly closing enemy aircraft. We opened fire together, and immediately a hail of lead thudded into my Spitfire. One moment the Messerschmitt was a clearly defined shape,

Its wingspan nicely enclosed within the circle of my reflector sight, and the next it was on top of me, a terrifying blur which blotted out the sky ahead. Then we hit.

The force of the impact pitched me violently forward onto my cockpit harness, the straps of which bit viciously into my shoulders. At the same moment, the control column was snatched abruptly from my gripping fingers by a momentary, but powerful, reversal of elevator load. In a flash it was over; there was clear sky ahead of me, and I was still alive. But smoke and flame were pouring from the engine, which began to vibrate, slowly at first but with increasing momentum, causing the now-regained control column to jump back and forwards in my hand. Hastily I closed the throttle and reached forward to flick off the ignition switches, but before I could do so the engine seized and the airscrew stopped abruptly. I saw with amazement that the blades had been bent almost double with the impact of the collision; the Messerschmitt must have been just that fraction above me as we hit.

With smoke now pouring into the cockpit I reached blindly forward for the hood-release toggle and tugged at it violently. There was no welcoming and expected rush of air to denote that the hood had been jet-

Tisoned. Again and again I pulled at the toggle but there was no response. In desperation I turned to the normal release catch and exerting my full strength endeavoured to slide back the hood. It refused to budge; I was trapped. There was only one thing to do: try to keep the aircraft under control and head for the nearby coast. The speed had by now dropped off considerably, and with full backward pressure on the stick I was just able to keep a reasonable gliding altitude. If only I could be lucky enough to hit in open country where there was a small chance that I might get away with it.

Frantically I peered through the smoke and flame enveloping the engine, seeking with streaming eyes for what lay ahead. There could be no question of turning; I had no idea what damage had been done to the fuselage and tail of my aircraft, although the mainplanes appeared to be undamaged, and I daren’t risk even a small turn at low level, even if I could have seen to turn.

Through a miasmatic cloud of flame and smoke the ground suddenly appeared ahead of me. The next moment a post flashed by my wingtip, and then the aircraft struck the ground and ricocheted into the air, again finally returning to earth with a jarring impact, and once again I was jerked forward

Onto my harness. Fortunately the straps held fast and continued to do so as the aircraft ploughed its way through a succession of splintering posts before finally coming to a halt on the edge of a cornfield. Half-blinded by smoke and frantic with fear I tore at my harness release pin. And then with my bare hands wielding the strength of desperation, I battered at the Perspex hood which entombed me. With a splintering crash it finally cracked open, thus enabling me to scramble from the cockpit to the safety of the surrounding field.

At a safe distance from the aircraft I sat down to observe the damage to person and property. My hands were cut and bleeding; my eyebrows were singed; both knees were badly bruised; and blood trickled into my mouth from a slightly cut lip. But I was alive! I learned later from the technical officer who examined the wreckage after the fire had been put out that the seat had broken free from the lower retaining bar, thus pivoting upwards, and so throwing my knees against the lower part of the dashboard.

The aircraft had ploughed a passage through three fields, studded with anti-invasion posts erected to prevent enemy gliders from landing, and bits of aircraft and posts were strewn along the three hundred yards

Of its path. My Spitfire was now a blazing mass of metal from which a series of explosions denoted that the heat was igniting the unused ammunition, to the consternation of a knot of onlookers who had by now collected at the scene of the crash.

A woman, whom I had observed coming from a nearby farmhouse, approached me and said:

“I have telephoned Manston airfield and they say that an ambulance and fire engine are already on the way. Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea?”

“Thank you, I will, but I would prefer something stronger if you’ve got it.”

“Yes, I think there is some whisky in the house. Will that do?”

“Yes thanks, just what the doctor would order. I’m sorry about messing up your fields; let’s hope the fire engine gets here before the fire spreads to that field of corn. Incidentally, how far are we from Manston?” “Oh not far, about five miles by road. Your people should be here soon.”

Turning to a small cluster of the more curious onlookers, who had crept closer to the wreckage, I said, “I advise you to stand well clear of the aircraft. There is plenty of high-octane fuel in the tanks and an explosion is a distinct possibility.” This remark

Had an immediate effect and they hastily retreated to a safe distance.

Before long, an anxious MO arrived with the ambulance and examined me cursorily before conveying me back to Manston. The squadron had returned to Rochford by the time I arrived, so I was forced to spend the night there. If the doctor had had his way I would have been bedded down in the station sick quarters, but after a certain amount of persuasive talk on my part he released me to return to the mess. The following morning saw me airborne in a Tiger Moth trainer, accompanied by Flying Officer Ben Bowring, a prewar rugger compatriot, and headed for Rochford with thoughts of a couple of days off. There was to be no respite, however. “Profs” first words on seeing me were:

“Thank heavens you’re back, Al. Are you fit to fly?”

“Reluctantly, yes,” I answered. “A bit shaken I must admit. Why the urgent note in your voice?”

“Well, we are damned short of pilots. Perhaps you haven’t been told yet, but we lost two of your chaps in that show yesterday, both presumed killed.”

Frankly, I had hoped for a day or two off the station, perhaps a quick sortie to Lon-

Don. I was pretty sore and a bit shaken, but quite obviously I couldn’t be spared.

Down at dispersal Johnny greeted me with, “We are in quite a mess for aircraft. There are only four serviceable, so you needn’t expect to fly this morning.”