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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 4: Lucky ‘Five of Clubs’

Anti-aircraft fire accounted for the majority of aircraft and pilots lost on the squadron. After flying through ‘flak’ it was not uncommon to arrive back at base with holes and tears in the wings, tail and fuselage where the bursting shrapnel had hit the plane. If the shrapnel tore into something vital like fuel tanks, radiators, or the cockpit, then the aircraft could easily be ‘downed’.

14/3/45

Duration 1.30: Attack to cut the railway line near ‘Cittadella’.

Seven of us set off with instructions to cut the railway line near ‘Cittadella’. We got there OK after Jerry (the German anti-aircraft batteries) had shot some heavy stuff at us along the way. We then bombed the rail line and goods yard.

Of the 4 bombs dropped (500lb bombs), only the leader’s and mine were observed to burst, the others must have been ‘duds’. Both our hits were just off the line to starboard. Then we spotted some goods wagons in a siding nearby and went at them and the factory buildings just behind them with the remaining bombs, machine guns and cannon. The other three aircraft ahead of me then went into staff but, as they did, Jerry put a complete carpet of light flak over the whole area. I was now coming in fast, and there was nothing else for it - I just had to dive right through the midst of this flak and hope for the best. The aircraft was buffeted by the explosions all around, and my first few bursts of fire were erratic owing to this, but then I settled down and got bags of hits. I then pulled up and began to climb away, but then some medium flak began burst near me — they had clearly got our range and were opening up with the bigger guns. I banged the ‘Spit’s’ throttle right open, through the ‘gate’, and got out of it.

We still had ammo left, so we made another attack and I observed my cannon shells hitting the trucks. This time, not only did they shoot at me going in, but the puffs of white and brown ack-ack chased me skywards as I pulled away. Jerry had really woken up now, and the sky was alive with little puffs of exploding shells. We turned and headed for home, crossing on the way over a fork in the river Po, and a known ‘danger spot’. I was expecting to be shot at every second by heavy flak of the 88 mm or 105 mm calibre. I was not disappointed. Up came two dirty black bursts right between two of us. The other chap flying on my starboard heaved back on his stick to get out of it, and his kite went upwards like a rocket. Then, another more accurate volley exploded right above my cockpit and to the front and rear of my aircraft. The concussion shook the Spit hard, and she dropped like a stone as the air was sucked out by the simultaneous explosions all around me. From the shock of it, I thought I must have been hit, but ramming the throttle open I did a skidding dive to port at high speed, then turned into sun and got away….

From the ground I must have looked like the ‘five of clubs’ with my aircraft at the centre and exploding ack-ack puffs framing me both fore and aft but, amazingly, my Spit was undamaged. I had been very lucky — again. Flying eastwards I rejoined the other chaps over the sea. They had all taken evasive action too and had come out of it unscathed, so we formed up, and came back into base.

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