Shot Down in Flames

A World War II Fighter Pilot's Remarkable Tale of Survival

Geoffrey Page

• Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781906502966
• eBook ISBN: 9781909166608
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

A pilot's first-hand account of the Battle of Britain. "Quite simply one of the best books I have ever read about the men who fought the war in the air." — Daily Mail
On 12 August 1940, during the Battle of Britain, in an engagement with Dornier Do 17s, Geoffrey Page was shot down into the English Channel, suffering severe burns. He spent much of the next two years in hospitals, undergoing plastic surgery, but recovered sufficiently to pursue an extremely distinguished war and postwar career.
This eloquently written and critically acclaimed autobiography tells of his wartime exploits in the air and on the ground. He was a founding member of The Guinea Pig Club—formed by badly burnt aircrew—and this is a fascinating account of the Club, of the courage and bravery of "The Few," and of Geoffrey's later life and achievements, most particularly in the creation of The Battle of Britain memorial.
"For sheer narrative power, it ranks with the best." — The Daily Telegraph

Twenty-Two

At the completion of the Milfield course I rejoined my unit.

The time spent in Scotland passed quickly and soon the squadron was winging its way southward, there to take up its role when the curtain went up on the Second Front.

At our new airfield at Ford on the south coast of England, the pilots were allowed no respite. Dive-bombing training now took a more practical shape, and every day a load of bombs was dropped on targets in France. These usually took the form of Hitler’s secret V.1 launching sites hidden away in various corners of the French countryside. The objectives consisted of two or three small concrete buildings no larger than cottages, and a hundred-yard-long launching ramp.

The problem of navigating his way from England to a pinpoint reference on the map held in his hand was only one of the squadron commander’s tasks. The target had to be identified while still many miles away, the aircraft in the squadron ordered into echelon formation for the attack, the best direction of approach obtained, so that the final dive was made without a difficult cross-wind component, and finally the accurate judgment of the moment at which to peel off from eight thousand feet so that all twelve aircraft could apply themselves to the task of screaming down in a steady dive, to release their bombs at just the right second.

From the instant the leader dropped his wing the vicious 40mm anti-aircraft guns surrounding the target would put up a fountain of orange-tracered flack through which the aircraft must dive.

Pulling his Spitfire up in an almost vertical climbing turn, the squadron commander must both assess the degree of success of the attack, watch out for enemy fighters, and ensure that his squadron reformed as a single complete unit as soon as possible. Often he would land and wait for a pilot who had failed to rejoin the rest until common sense forced him to send off the hated letter to the missing man’s next of kin.

I sat at my desk in the wooden hut. A thin partition divided my office from the larger portion of the small wooden building. Only slightly muffled, the voices of my pilots reached my ear as they indulged in a lively game of poker. From outside came the distant roar of a powerful engine as a Spitfire underwent its ground tests. Following a firm knock, the office door opened and two youthful flight lieutenants entered and saluted. They were my two flight commanders. The shorter of the two wore a forage cap under which showed his mass of blond hair. To emphasize the point, the flag of Norway stood out proudly on the upper part of his sleeve. “Skipper” Vinden, so named because of his likeness to the figure in oilskins depicted on every tin of Skipper Norwegian bristlings, commanded “B” Flight. A humourist by nature, he endeared himself to those under his command by his determination to get at the enemy on every possible occasion. His favourite English expression sounded like, “What the bloody hail!”

“Have a pew,” I said, as I waved my hand in the direction of some wooden cases that served as furniture. Skipper sat down with a sigh of relief. He had been to bed very early the previous night, but not for sleeping purposes. Michael Graham leaned his broad figure against the door. “I’m O.K., Boss.” Although quick to use a formal “Sir” when the occasion demanded, Michael used the term “Boss” to indicate his friendly subservience to his squadron commander’s higher rank. I looked at them both in turn, but my eyes settled on Skipper as I spoke. I knew how much more it would mean to the fearless little Norwegian.

“You will inform your pilots that all passes out of camp are cancelled until further notice, and that they are to report to the briefing room at nineteen hundred hours sharp – you will not tell them yet that tomorrow is D-Day – ”

The blond pilot’s mouth opened as if to speak and then closed slowly. Graham’s low whistle of astonishment was accentuated as the roaring engine outside was throttled back. “Raise you three,” came the muffled voice through the partition.

The engine crackled and stopped.

There was complete silence.

Group Captain Jamie Rankin, the airfield commander, tapped the wall map with a wooden pointer.

“There are five main beaches. Three British – Sword, Juno and Gold, and two American – Omaha and Utah.” He turned to face the ninety fighter pilots seated in the briefing room. “The task of our three squadrons is to provide close cover over the two American beaches from first light tomorrow morning.” The group captain lowered his voice slightly as he spoke to the three squadron commanders seated in the front row.

“You will find details of times of patrol in there.” The pointer tapped at the manual on my lap bearing the imposing title of “Operation Overlord.”

For the next hour the airfield commander explained the broad outlines of the intended landing. Sentence by sentence he built up a picture of the vast sea and aerial armadas that would be approaching the Normandy beaches in but a few hours’ time.

The palms of my hands were wet with sweat.

At last I abandoned the idea of ever getting to sleep, and stood outside the tent listening to the never-ending drone of the nightbomber force winging overhead. The last phase of the softening-up period was being completed, and after the bombers would come the fleets of paratroopers and gliders; arranging their time of arrival precisely at the beaches were the hundreds of landing craft now bobbing a determined way across the English Channel.

The greatest armada the world has ever known was underway.

Asleep in their beds the people of England slumbered peacefully on, unaware that their fighting sons no longer inhabited the same loved island. Unaware that many of these sons would find their rest beneath the rich soil of Normandy.

I envied the contented snores rising out from the tent I was passing. Inside slept four sergeant pilots. Passing on I caught sight of the glow of a cigarette burning in the darkness. “Who’s that? Skipper?” The two flight commanders shared the same tent. “No, boss, it’s Mike.” I seated myself beside Graham on the grass. “Wart the blordy hail is going on,” Skipper’s blond hair hung down over his eyes as he poked a sleepy face out from between the canvas flaps.

“Come and join the happy throng, you oversexed Scandinavian.” Mike was in good form despite the early hour of the morning and the vital implications that it held.

I suddenly felt old and alone. Despite my twenty-four years it seemed to me that a chasm of time divided me from my two flight commanders. I knew that I had lost the boyish spirits.

Mike was now expressing. Was it on account of my responsibilities, or was I getting war weary? I did not want to think of the answer, but only to get on with the task that lay a few hours ahead. Idly I wondered if either Skipper or Mike would still be alive at the end of the day. The Norwegian, I felt, stood the lesser chance of survival. His fanatical desire to kill anything German could easily lead to his own undoing. As for myself, I did not really care. Death would at least allow me to shed my mantle of tiredness. No more would there be that tight knot of fear and anxiety gripping my insides every time a new operation was signalled through from group headquarters.

I was giving my pilots their final briefing. It was still forty-seven minutes before H-Hour, our rendezvous over Omaha beach. Four minutes of this time would be utilized starting up and taxiing out to the end of the runway, three minutes would go in a circuit of the airfield as the squadron of twelve formed up, and thirty minutes would be spent in getting to our patrol area along the prescribed routes.

Ten minutes left before the engines roared into life.

“On no account whatsoever is anyone to leave the beach area during our patrol period – I don’t care if there’s a big fat juicy Hun a couple of miles inland asking to be shot down – our job is to give cover to the troops below.” I looked about me at the pale faces just discernible in the dark. “The odds are that a lone Jerry is bait to get us out of the way while a big formation has a crack at the landing barges.”

One of the pilots interrupted. “What happens if we get engine trouble, sir?” “A forced-landing strip is being prepared here,” I tapped the map. “It may not be ready for a day or two, so you’ll just have to use common sense – any more questions? – All right, better get out to your machines.”

Silently the little group of twelve fanned out towards the dispersed Spitfires.

I felt cold and lonely as I went through the routine cockpit check; by now, practice had made it almost automatic. By the glow of the dim cockpit lighting I followed the steady movement of the second hand as it crept round the dial of my watch. Fifteen seconds to go – ten – five – four – three – two – one. Giving a rapid thumbs-up to the ground crew, I leaned forward in my seat and firmly pressed the two black starter buttons. Immediately the powerful Merlin engine roared into life. Within seconds the mobile starter battery was pulled clear of the aircraft and the chocks taken from the wheels. All around in the darkness spots of purple flame flashed as the remainder of the squadron started up their engines.

Swiftly the graceful Spitfires taxied out to the end of the runway, there to form up in six pairs for the take-off. Restraining myself for ten seconds to keep to the exact time schedule, I opened up my engine slowly but firmly. Giving a flicking side glance to make sure that the second Spitfire was close alongside, I settled down to concentrating on the take-off itself. Gracefully the little fighter rose from the ground, tucking up its wheels neatly into the wing wells. Doing a gradual turn around the airfield circuit I watched the five following pairs closing up rapidly as they cut across my turning circle. Satisfied that we were together as a unit, I set course for the Isle of Wight, there to pick up the pre-determined route to the beachhead. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east. The land below began to take solid shape, and soon I could see the distinctive shape of the Needles.

Our Spitfires turned southward and opened out into battle formation as the shores of England receded behind.

My concentration relaxed for a moment as my gaze took in the roughness of the sea. It needed little imagination to conjure up a miserable picture of the thousands of troops cooped up in their landing barges, many of them prey to sea sickness despite their wonder pills. The greyness receded from the early morning, and soon I was able to pick out the shape of the Cherbourg Peninsular ahead on the starboard. My keen sight soon spotted the low cloud formation lying inland and covering the beach area.

Almost immediately afterwards I saw a sight that brought a flood of feeling into mind and body, both of which had felt little emotion, except resentment for so long.

Hundreds of ships of all sizes and shapes, from vast battleships to small barges, littered the surface of the sea. Some were still completing their rough passage across the Channel, others lay at anchor while the big grey men o’war belched forth sixteen inch shells from their gun turrets in the direction of the French countryside; two Seafire fighters buzzed above the battleships like flies around a cart horse, spotting the accuracy of the gunners below and supplying them with corrections.

Sleek destroyers guarded the flanks of the shipping armada, while overhead patrolled the ever-watchful fighter cover.

Minesweepers plied their steady patrol back and forth, and an occasional column of water rose to prove the value of their efforts.

Superimposed on this fantastic picture were the ghostly outlines, in my mind, of the pathetic little fleet that I had watched standing off the beaches of Dunkirk. The pendulum had gone full swing. A feeling of savage delight passed through me. “Right, you bastards,” I thought, “you’ve asked for it and now you’re going to get it.” There was no mercy in my heart. Our Spitfires swept past the moored fleet and commenced the vigil over the two American beaches of Omaha and Utah.

Figures hurried about like busy ants, and tracks left by passing vehicles stood out sharply as indentations on the beach. Inland the high hedged Bocage countryside absorbed all signs of movement. Masses of coloured parachutes lay clustered together in fields, and troop-carrying gliders lay about in contorted positions like dead men, their task done. Time passed with seemingly no action taking place on the battlefields below, until suddenly a gush of flame from a barn or farmhouse would tell us that a grim struggle was indeed taking place.

The expected reaction from the enemy air force never materialized that morning, and after an hour’s patrol I reluctantly led my formation back to England.

Only his service training stopped the irate Skipper from flying inland to shoot up the first German target he could find. The war held a very personal meaning to this homeless young Norwegian, and to return to base without firing his guns was tantamount to sacrilege.

Landing back at Ford, we were quickly surrounded by the eager ground crews, crowding around to get details of the landing and to know if a beachhead was being established. With my two flight commanders I strode off to the operations room to give a detailed report to the intelligence officer. As we came out into the sunshine half an hour later, we were attracted by groups of people staring up into the sky. Following their gaze we quickly spotted the big four-engined Stirling bomber towing a troop-filled Horsa glider. The port outer engine of the Stirling had stopped and it was obvious that it was in trouble due to the heavy load dragging along behind.

The watchers below saw the tow rope release and the glider turn towards our airfield below. It was apparent to all that the bomber would never have hauled its load across to the Normandy beaches.

Completing a half-circuit of the airfield, the Horsa pilot made a neat touchdown on the grass between the concrete runways. Within seconds troops poured out from the hull and rushed towards the nearby buildings, their Sten guns held ready for immediate action. Only after their pilot had shouted frantically at them did the moment of truth arrive. Sheepishly they lowered their guns on realizing they were on English and not French soil.

The N.A.A.F.I. tea wagon rolled up to complete their embarrassment!

The days passed in uneventful beach patrols, and still the Luftwaffe was not to be seen. The anticlimax was almost worse than the preinvasion tension.

Tired but content, Michael Graham and I dropped our girlfriends off, the nightclub closed and we headed south for our airfield. First light was just breaking as we reached the airfield. Approaching the dispersal area, we were surprised to see the activity taking place around the aircraft.

“What on earth is going on?” asked Mike.

“God knows,” I replied. “Our first show isn’t until ten.”

Skipper came out of the dispersal hut to greet us.

“Orf to blordy France, ve are and nort coming back.”

The next hour was a wild scramble to pack our belongings and be ready for the imminent departure. I had foreseen the day when my personal belongings, few as they were, would not fit into the cramped cockpit of a Spitfire. I had obtained an old cigar-shaped long-range tank which the engineers had fitted with a detachable nose. It was only a matter of moments to put articles such as blankets, sleeping bag and an extra uniform into the tank. I just hoped that on the way over to France we would not have to go into action as this meant the tank would have to be jettisoned, and with it all my possessions. The flight proved uneventful, and later in the morning eighteen Spitfires curved in to land on a prepared strip of ground in the centre of a Normandy wheatfield.

The method of preparing the single strip runway was for a bulldozer to clear a path through the waving wheat, taking the top layer of earth with it. Pilots and ground crews soon became acquainted with the fine soil that was to be blown in all directions off the strip, to find its way into everything from our clothes to our food. Later it was to create vital problems by getting into the delicate operating mechanisms of our machine guns and cannons, resulting in stoppages that meant the difference between life and death. Dispersed away from the strip among the apple orchards were the tents of the air and ground crews. Ingenuity was soon at work, and hot showers were erected to combat the fine dust. The airplanes were also dispersed as much as possible to avoid widespread damage in case of surprise attack.

The days that followed were ones of intense activity. From dawn to dusk allied fighters ranged far behind the enemy lines, attacking any legitimate targets that moved along the roads. Seldom did my squadron and I return to our airstrip with our guns unfired. Rising columns of smoke bespoke of the funeral pyres of lorries and armoured cars. On...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• One
• Two
• Three
• Four
• Five
• Six
• Seven
• Eight
• Nine
• Ten
• Eleven
• Twelve
• Thirteen
• Fourteen
• Fifteen
• Sixteen
• Seventeen
• Eighteen
• Nineteen
• Twenty
• Twenty-One
• Twenty-Two
• Twenty-Three
• Twenty-Four
• Twenty-Five
• Twenty-Six
• Twenty-Seven
• Twenty-Eight
• Publisher’s Note
• Confirmed Combat Victories
• Index