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Spitfire Pilot, 92 Squadron, Desert Air Force (DAF), Italy (1944 — 1945)

A ‘Spit’ Pilot’s thoughts…

Flight Sergeant/Warrant Officer Stanley (Mike) Widdowson: Spitfire Pilot, 92 Squadron 1944 — 1945.

Chapter 3: A brave enemy

I once asked Dad if he could remember observing a particularly brave act during his war time experiences. I was rather surprised when he related a story about an enemy soldier. It is rare that a ground-attack pilot would have a ‘personal’ battle with enemy ground forces, because by and large the targets were buildings, fuel dumps, railways, or armoured vehicles. This event, it seems, left a big impression on him, largely because it marked a single point in time when two individuals were lethally pitted against each other, both determined, and both aiming to win.

12/3/45

Duration 1.20: Attack sortie to cut the rail line at Sambonifaco

‘Four of us were selected and led by the CO with the am of cutting the rail line at Sambonifaco. We found the target, and there were lots of rolling stock and goods wagons parked on the line. We turned in and bombed the railway track and left the place in a complete shambles. Again, I am impressed how accurate we can be, considering a rail way line is only a few feet wide, the fact that we (4 of us) can guarantee to blow the line up in at least one place every time we attach will vouch for the accuracy of our bombing. The job done, we then turned and headed back for home.

However, on way back, my engine began to behave badly, and was running very rough. I reported it to the CO over the R/T, but told him I could keep going and that I’d be OK for a while. We then saw an armoured car amongst some trees, and the four of us came in low and straffed it, knocking it to pieces. Men on the ground were running for cover, and jumping into ditches and whatever shelter there was from our guns. However, as I was pulling up to climb away after the attack, I saw a lone soldier break cover and run across the in the open across to a ferry or barge moored on the bank of the river Po. This was an anti-aircraft barge bristling with guns, and the running soldier made it to one of the gun installations. He must have been a brave chap with all those Spitfires flying round and straffing everything that moved. I wheeled my ‘Spit’ around and came in to attack the barge. The soldier was now in position and he began firing at me with his 20 mm ‘ack-ack’ gun; the damned cheek of him! We were both intent on stopping each other, and despite me lining up on him he stayed at his post with his gun blazing away, and he was a pretty good shot too, because his tracer shells came flashing past the cockpit. At that instant, it was clear that one or both of our fates was now sealed; it was either me or him, and I opened up with my machine guns and saw the bullets making lines of little splashes across the water and then hitting the barge. At the same moment I felt a bang, something seemed to glance off my bullet-proof windscreen, and the Spit twitched a bit — I was still firing away, and saw the deck of the barge splinter as my bullets hit home around the gun emplacement. As I passed overhead, the gun was no longer firing, and I couldn’t see the soldier. As I say, it had been me or him, and today, luck has been on my side. We formed-up again and headed for Cervia where we landed because our own ‘drome was fogbound. I went around to the squadron based there, where I saw my friend Rob Wright and had a chat with him, we talked of the ‘ops’ and then about home, our friends and family.

Later on in the afternoon, when the fog cleared enough, we took off and returned to our own landing strip just before dark. The engine was still a bit rough, but got me back OK. I, landed without problem, and then taxied back to the aircraft shelter and stopped the engine, did my cockpit check-though, and began to take off my helmet and mask, and unbuckle my harness straps. The fitters then began to move around the aircraft, checking it, and looking for any damage that may need repair. I had begun to tell one of them about the engine running roughly, when there was a call from round the nose of the ‘plane, and another fitter said ‘ere mate, have you seen this?’ As I got down off the wing, and waddled round to the nose with my ‘chute still attached, I noticed he was pointing to a dent in the propeller spinner and a neat groove right down the top of the nose of the Spit. I think it was where one of the lone gunners shells had grazed past. It must have been initially deflected by the propeller spinner and, having been spent, grazed up the nose and hit my windscreen before being bounced off. The fact that it had not caused any further damage was almost beyond belief. I wondered if it had perhaps been one of the tracer rounds, rather than the explosive rounds; a direct hit from one of these would have certainly stopped me in my tracks. If this is so, then I’ve been even luckier than I first realised. However, I wasn’t certain of how this lucky escape might have occurred, and I still be alive, so not wishing to draw attention to my ‘near miss’, I have kept quiet’.

In the years afterward I’m sure Dad thought a lot about this particular incident, and how a twist of fate or luck can determine whether a man lives or dies. The fact that he recognised the bravery and determination of the enemy soldier reveals that the war fought from a single-seat fighter-bomber was neither a clinical nor an unemotional experience.

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