once, I didn’t argue. All I wanted was to be back in Angels Cove with Edward, to be held in his arms and to never let go.
On 19th December the duty pilot handed me my flying chit in the morning with a smile on her face. ‘Deliver this and then you’re done,’ she said. ‘Happy Christmas!’ I looked at the chit in my hand – a Spitfire to Predannack! This was it, one last flight and finally, after all those months of heartache, I was going home, not to Lanyon, but to Angels Cove – to Edward.
True, flying to Cornwall evoked a number of heart-breaking memories, but the Spitfire was a beautiful aircraft to fly and as I banked over the cove towards Predannack, I looked down at the angels and smiled. It was my first genuine smile since Anna had gone.
My smile did not last for long.
Predannack had become a busy and important air station – an air station that the Luftwaffe were keeping an eye on. As I banked over the cove and began my final descent into the airfield, I saw a trace of bullets fly past my port wing, followed rapidly by another trace, a couple of which managed to hit my underbelly. I glanced over my right shoulder to see a German Messerschmitt sitting on my tail. ATA pilots were not taught how to evade attack, but from somewhere, the aerobatic skills developed during my flying circus days kicked in and having only taken what I believed to be a scratch, I was able to roll the aircraft to the right, then pull hard over into a loop, successfully placing myself to the rear of the German.
With no ammunition to fight back, a decision needed to be made. Should I attempt to outrun him or try to land at Predannack. The German made the decision for me. He ran! He bloody well ran and disappeared out to sea as quickly as he arrived. It had simply been a cheap shot from an armed reconnaissance aircraft.
I took a deep breath and repositioned for Predannack. With a mile to run and at four hundred feet I pulled the lever to lower the undercarriage but the wheels did not lower. I tried again. Nothing. The mechanism must have been damaged by the last round of bullets.
I levelled off at two hundred feet and overflew the airfield waggling my wings. This was a sign to the control tower and the engineers that I was in trouble, but they must have surely guessed this already. I saw engineers running out of the squadron building to take a look as I flew past. A red Verey flare was fired as I turned downwind, presumably to warn me about the lack of undercarriage. I flew a circuit of the airfield and passed over the runway again – as slowly as possible without stalling. I needed to make another decision: should I bail out over the sea or land on my belly at Predannack. Bailing out was not an attractive option. I would have to gain height before bailing in order to have sufficient time for the parachute to open, but even if survived the bail out, I wouldn’t survive the cold of the sea for long if there was no boat nearby to haul me out.
The decision was made. I would land wheels-up at Predannack.
I positioned myself for a long approach on finals and patted the Spitfire affectionately. ‘I’m sorry, old girl,’ I said, ‘but this isn’t going to be pretty. We’re in it together now.’
Three hundred feet, two hundred feet, one hundred … feather, flair, gently, gently …
And then I was down. Sliding along grass and then concrete. There was nothing for it but to close my eyes, just as I had done once before when lost in cloud above Devon, and brace myself as she slid across the airfield, hoping to God we didn’t burst into flames. I waited for the inevitable stop, which, when it came, came with a bang.
Three men pulled me from the cockpit. One of them was Edward Nancarrow. He saw the whole thing as it evolved – the attack by the Messerschmitt, my evasion and subsequent crash. There was blood on Edward’s coat, I noticed, as they pulled me well-clear of the wreckage and laid me on the grass, waiting for the ambulance, which arrived moments later.
‘You’re bleeding, Edward,’ I muttered, not aware of my injuries at the time.
‘Don’t worry about that now,’ he said,