大象传媒

It must have been the summer of 1940 and I was 8 years old. My parents had evacuated me from Portsmouth to avoid the bombing and I was now living with my aunt in the village of West Wittering.

I was attending the village school, which lagged behind the school I had attended in educational standards. This had resulted in my being placed in a class above that appropriate to my age.

Since playtimes for differing age groups were staggered to avoid too many pupils being in the small playground at the same time, I found that the older pupils, all local village lads, didn't include me in their ranks. There was no open hostility but I found it more comfortable to arrive at school just as the bell was sounding and go straight to class.

A certain amount of dawdling was required to get the timing just right. For those who know the village, there was in those days a path from just west of the entrance to Wells Farm Estate to a point immediately opposite the little road to the church and to the school. This path crossed a field with Berry Barn Lane to the left. This was my route to school and the one I was taking on the day in question.

The summer was very hot that year and the harvest had already been gathered, leaving just the stubble. This sets the actual date around late August or early September. The Battle of Britain had begun in earnest and aircraft were a common sight as were the vapour trails of fierce aerial fighting across the sky. All small boys were well versed in aircraft recognition, as every public place showed posters of aircraft silhouettes, both RAF and Luftwaffe.

It is necessary at this point to explain that West Wittering did not at the time have the luxury of a siren to warn of impending enemy action. We did have a warden who, on receiving a telephone call, was supposed to mount his bicycle and ride through the village blowing his whistle. So much for the theory. The practice, however, was somewhat different. When he was not actually on the toilet, where he spent most of his time, he was either going there or just coming from there. By the time he had mounted his bicycle he had little or no breath left to blow the whistle. The village relied therefore on common sense. If you heard aircraft noises, you took to the shelter if there was one. If not, the nearest ditch.

Thus it was on the day in question. Whilst dawdling across the field, I heard in the distance and from behind me the sound of aero engines. Looking round I saw coming from over the trees along Elms Lane a Dornier bomber. It was flying so low that it barely cleared the tree tops. The starboard engine was streaming oily smoke and the propeller on that side was windmilling idly, the yellow tips plainly visible. The bomb doors were open and there were several large holes from which fluttering pieces of metal flashed in the sun. The Dornier staggered across the Cakeham Road and flew above and along Berry Barn Lane. I was transfixed because I could clearly see the face of the pilot as he fought to gain height. I seriously doubt if he had more than twenty feet at this point.

The aircraft flew over the junction where East and West Strand meet and headed out to sea. There must have been an updraught over the water, because he began to gain height. A few minutes after I lost sight of the plane came a series of loud explosions.

I hurried on to school where "Miss" was shepherding everyone into the shelter, a place which I tried to avoid since it smelled of things best not mentioned.

Everyone had seen the plane and wild theories abounded. Some claimed Fritz was trying to bomb the school, whilst others maintained that gun positions on East Head had been his target. Sadly the stories became more and more wild until an outsider would be forgiven for thinking the village had suffered a full-scale blitz.

The facts were a little less lurid. The guns on East Head did not open fire as the plane coming from behind them caught them napping. The Dornier was last seen heading east of the Nab Tower, still trailing smoke but gradually climbing. The explosions were caused when the pilot jettisoned his bomb load in order to gain height.

Beyond confirming to my aunt that I had indeed seen the plane, I kept my own counsel and remained silent. That night as I tried to sleep, my mind was disturbed. What I had seen that day was not an enemy, a foul Nazi trying to kill innocent people, but a white-faced young man struggling with a damaged plane, trying to reach the sea, where he could jettison his bombs without hitting the village. This picture did not fit at all well with the propaganda we had been fed about the Luftwaffe. Even after all these years, I can still see his face and his determination to stay away from the houses below.

I have no way of knowing if the pilot made it all the way to France, but oh I do hope so.

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