Arise to Conquer

Ian Gleed

• Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781908117816
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Historical Biographies
• Index: History

A Royal Air Force fighter pilot's action-packed memoir of his service before, during, and after the epic World War II battle.
Originally published during the war in 1942, this is the other side of the mirror from the philosophical flight record of authors such as Antoine de Saint Exupery. It is a literal, daily record of an English fighter pilot of 23 years fighting in the Battle of Britain, giving a truly authentic picture of life on a squadron in those times.
Gleed details his first sortie in 1939, his breakdown not so long after, his return to the RAF and battles over France, his exploits in the Battle of Britain, becoming an ace, downing Messerschmitts, and eventually being awarded the DFC for his service as leader and fighter.
Praise for Arise to Conquer
"An epic of the Battle of Britain." — The Sphere (UK)
"An excellent account of the daily life of a fighter squadron in the Battle of Britain… gives spirited descriptions of many air combats." — Flight

First Action Over England

England was just the same. London was hot and dusty in the flaming sun. We were all given fortyeight hours’ leave. God! it was grand to sleep in my own room again. Pam came and stayed. I slept a lot, as I was very tired. We went to see a show in town. Pam and my people enjoyed it a lot; I thought that it was awful. We ate at the Troc and the Savoy. At both places I had a guilty conscience, as I thought of all the hungry refugees struggling across France. As we ate in comfort men were dying in France, ill equipped, fighting a highly mechanised army which had trained for years. That “forty-eighters” should have been very happy, but it wasn’t. I was feeling guilty about leaving France.

When we got back to North Weald we were told that the Squadron was going back to its home ’drome at Debden. The old hands were very pleased. I took my car with me, as I looked forward to some parties with the boys, whom I was really only just beginning to know. We flew to Debden in time for lunch, to be told as soon as we had landed that we were to proceed to Church Fenton, where we would be equipped with tools, etc.; our men would be sent up there. They had arrived in small batches at North Weald, and seemed doomed to spend days chasing us across the country. We flew up to Church Fenton after lunch, and were welcomed on the tarmac by the station commander.

Church Fenton is a new ’drome, about twelve miles from York. It has a very modern, comfortable mess. We were shown to our extremely pleasant single rooms. Life looked up. We had thirteen aeroplanes. Our men were turning up in twos and threes, and odd pilots arrived—some who had been back in England for leave before the Blitz, and some who had come back by boat. It was only now that I really met the chaps in the Squadron. In France I really only met my own “A” Flight boys, as whenever we went for meals, “B” Flight were at readiness, and vice versa.

The Squadron was very pleased with itself, and felt very bolshie about all the bull^* that was flying around the station.

We didn’t do much flying. The great retreat from France and the withdrawal from Dunkirk were going through their final stages while we lay about in the sun, periodically going to stores to draw new equipment, and hearing yarns from the men of how they got out. They had arrived at Boulogne all right, but found no ships to take them across, so they stayed there, and were bombed incessantly throughout the nights. Dennis, one of our pilots, who had come home by boat, had spent one night trying to sleep on a blanket under a lorry which had been blown across the road several times by near misses. Sergeant Horsham had distinguished himself by bayoneting a Jerry parachutist in the back. The Jerry had been one of thirty who had tried to capture a hospital on a river-bank. Horsham had a rifle with no ammo, so he waited until one of the Jerries got caught in a tree, and stabbed him in the back, then ran like hell and was violently sick.

A few new pilots arrived, so we got down to training them. We were patching up our rather neglected machines. One of them that I took up for a test let me down. I took off, selected wheels up; on came the red lights. ‘O.K.’ Hell! damn! the bloody thing wouldn’t come out of the wheels-up position. I flew around, tugging with all my force. ‘Kick the thing, you fool!’ I kicked—nothing happened. ‘Oh, hell!’ I tugged, pulled, pushed and kicked again; by this time my hand was just about raw. ‘Right now, keep cool. Where’s a pencil? Ah, now where’s a map?’ On the map I scribbled, “U/C^† stuck up; will crash-land shortly.” I dived low over our dispersal hut and dropped the map; it fluttered to the ground, and was picked up by one of the crews. Now all I had to do was to wait till my petrol was low, then do a belly-landing. In the meantime I made my hand even sorer by more tugging. Nothing would shift it. I noticed that the Ambulance was doing a small circuit of the ’drome, warming up for me. Quite a crowd was gathering to watch the crash. ‘Hell to this! I’m getting thirsty. Right, let’s go.’ I circled lower. ‘Blast it! I shan’t be able to get the flaps down; that means a damned fast approach.’ I made a dummy run, screaming across the ’drome, trying to gauge the position that I should turn the mags^‡ off, thus stopping the engine. Round I went. ‘A fast turn in; here goes. Down, down. Stick back a bit; right mags off.’ Crack, crack—bits of the prop flew by the cockpit. Crunch, a terrific lurch as I got slung nearly into the wind-screen. Bump, bump, and we stopped. ‘Hell! Let’s get out of this quick.’ I tore the safety-straps off, jumped on to the wing, then to the ground. The fire-tender reached the ’plane just as I was clear, and sprayed it with foam, just in case it went up in flames; it didn’t, so I retired to tea.

Life became dull. We sat around, drove to leeds for parties, swam in the little river. We tried our hand at night-flying, charging about dark skies, dazzled by searchlights, chasing elusive Huns who bombed Hull periodically. No success. Teddy Blake of the other Flight went to inspect a ’drome to see if it was operational to operate “Hurries” from. He inspected the ’drome, then took off; he spun off a stall turn and crashed. There wasn’t much of Teddy left to put in the coffin. He had been married less than a year. It was a sad loss to the Squadron.

Then came good news: another move—this time to Exeter, where we were taking over the civil Whitney Straight ’drome. “Exeter? Anybody know it?”—“Yes, it’s O.K.,” said Robbie. “I’ve got a girl friend there.” We moved with two days’ notice, this time with masses of equipment and eighteen serviceable aircraft. We were together again as a Squadron, not two harried flights working at different ends of a ’drome.

At Church fenton the Squadron had received some decorations. Johnny, our C.O., was awarded the D.F.C. and D.S.O., David Rhodes a bar to the D.F.C., “Dusty” Miller and “Dimmy” Deacon the D.F.C. There was a terrific party to celebrate. We arrived at Exeter in Squadron formation, feeling in fine form. The ’drome was being enlarged—the red soil of Devon was laid bare in many places; workmen were digging and shovelling it, piling it up in huge heaps, making the ’drome visible for miles around. There was a club-house and one hangar. We landed, and were waved to the far end of the ’drome, where we dispersed the ’planes. A lorry came and drove us to the mess, where we had a conference. There was nowhere to live on the camp, and it had been decided that we should be billeted in hotels in the town.

We piled into the lorry and tore down to the town, where we went to one of the big hotels. There arrangements were made to billet us. We had nearly a floor to ourselves, and were put two in a room. I shared a room with Chris. Robbie and Dick were together, “Ben” and “Watty”, David and “Mitch”. Things looked O.K. It was rather a smart hotel, with several comfortable bars. Luxury. “Now who will be at readiness in the morning? O.K., David; I’ll toss you which flight does it.” David lost, so his boys would do it. Our men arrived that night: they were billeted in a big country house near the ’drome. Johnny, who was in charge of the ’drome, did some very swift work, commandeering buses, lorries and cars. He managed to get hold of a Ford V 8 for me. That suited my boys fine; it carried six of us easily and would do a very wobbly ninety.

We soon settled in. The clubhouse had a small restaurant, where we had our meals; tents were put up at our dispersal points; we put beds in them and slept there when we were at early readiness. The telephone woke us at fourthirty; our engines were warmed up, we pulled our trousers over our pyjamas and retired to our beds. Sometimes enemy patrols came through at first light, then we tore off the ground, cleaving a path through the thin fog that hung over the ’drome. We chased many elusive plots of Jerry aircraft with no success. We flogged many times up to 25,000 chasing evasive smoke-trails made by the high-flying recco ’planes. We never caught them.

Action at last. Sergeant Horsham came in to land with his gun-ports gaping. “What luck?”—“I had a crack at a Heinkel over Portland; the b——disappeared into the clouds. I can’t even claim a damaged,” he said.

Things began to happen. The C.O., Johnny, Dickie and Paul Grierson found twelve M.E. 110s south of Portland. Johnny knocked down two, Dickie one confirmed and one probable, and Paul one confirmed; none of our ’planes were damaged. We were all as pleased as Punch, and had a grand party at our pub that night.

At last the thing that we had been expecting happened: Johnny was promoted to “Winco” and posted as Station commander. “Shuvvel” was made C.O. we all liked “Shuvvel” a hell of a lot. Johnny still flew with us quite a lot; he was a grand Station master, as he knew exactly what we wanted. 213 Squadron arrived; they seemed a good crowd and had done quite a lot of fighting over Dunkirk. It made life much easier for us. We had nicknamed one of our new pilots “Rubber”, because he bounced.

“Come on, ‘Rubber’; we’re readiness at dawn, let’s see a quick ‘flick’.” We had just been released, so we grabbed a supper and raced down the town with some of the boys in the back. “Look out, ‘Widge’, here’s a steep turn; oh Christ! we just missed a lorry. 60, 70, 80”—prayer from the back. A scream of brakes as we arrive at the “flick”-house. We charge in, looking very scruffy in our dark blitz shirts and oily uniforms. We laugh a lot at the “flicks”; we hurtle out, dive for the car. “What about a spot of fish and chips?”—“O.K., old boy.” We go into the rather rough little shop that sells damned good fish and chips; we sit down at bare tables. “A couple of sixpennies, please, miss.” A large slab of fish and a shower of chips arrive, plus the usual huge bottle of vinegar. A cup of coffee, and off we go to the ’drome. “Hell and damnation!” comes from “Rubber” as he falls over the guy-ropes. I laugh like hell, a second later splutter in the dust as I follow his bad example. Moans from the inside of the tent. Dennis, who was already asleep, wakes up cursing. We duck in under the laced-up fly-sheet. Blast it! the telephone goes for a six on the floor. At last we have some light from a torch. We undress quickly, carefully leaving scarfs, trousers and jackets where we can get at them quickly; we climb into our beds between the rough blankets. “You swine, ‘Rubber’! Where the hell did you get that from?” “Rubber” clambers into a luxurious sleeping-bag; I think I must get one of those. A few snorts and grunts and we drop off to sleep.

Br … ing! br … ing! Hell! the ’phone. I reach out. “‘A’ Flight here. O.K. We are at readiness now. Press the bell, ‘Rubber’.” The bell rings in the men’s tent; they run out, and in a few moments the engines roar into life.

We clamber out of bed, shivering in the grey dawn, shove our trousers and flying-boots on, and stagger out of the tent. Weather’s not too bad: no cloud, slight groundmist—another fine day by the look of it. Back to the tent and into bed again. It’s five o’clock; we get relieved for breakfast at eight-thirty.

As the light improves we get our books out and read quietly. Br … ing! Br … ing! Br … ing! “‘A’ Flight, start up.”—“Right.”–“Patrol Portland.” We grab our tunics and Mae Wests; the engines splutter into life. “Rubber” had pressed the button that set the klaxon going as soon as I had said “Start up!” We run to our machines; within a few seconds we are screaming across the ground in a rough vic formation. I turn the R.T. on. “Hullo, Crocodile! Suncup Red 1 calling. Are you receiving?”—“Hullo, Red 1! Crocodile answering. Receiving you loud and clear.” We head eastwards, climbing hard. Hell! There’s a pile of cloud over the coast. We climb through it, “Rubber” and Dennis coming in close to keep me in sight. We get out of cloud and are dazzled by the sun. We soon reach 15,000. “Hullo, Crocodile! Angels now reached; standing by.”—“Hullo, Red leader! Break away one ’plane to patrol below clouds; maintain your height.”—’Hell! that means they don’t know what height they’re at.’—“Hullo, Red 3! (“Rubber”). Break away and patrol Portland beneath cloud.” “Rubber” breaks away and disappears downwards. The sun gets warmer; we go in big circles. “Hullo, Red 1! Bandits approaching you from the south; height unknown.” Hell! We peer southwards. Wish the hell they would give us some height. Suddenly, faintly, co...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Foreword
• Contents
• List of Illustrations
• I: The start
• II: A Fall
• III: Good-bye
• IV: Combats Before Lunch
• V: The End of France
• VI: First Action Over England
• VII: A Hundred and Twenty Plus -
• VIII: "Shuvvel's" Funeral
• IX: A Hundred and Fifty Plus -
• X: Intruder
• XI: Buckingham Palace
• XII: The Work Goes On