Aviation

The AVIATION GROUP
meet at 11 am at the Golf Club

Every Monday

So pop along if you feel like it.

It is an informal drop in for coffee and a chat where anyone with aviation interests is very welcome. This is a chance for recollections and exchanging flying news.

Contact people for the meantime is
Ken Hickling aviation.10@louthu3a.org.uk

- - o O o - -

The Death of a Spitfire

The fabulous Merlin engine of the charismatic Spitfire, along with the steadfast Hurricane, our saviours and protectors from the mighty Luftwaffe, could purr, scream like a woman, or emit a thunderous roar. (This was similar to the Churchillian roar of defiance when asked to surrender after the collapse of France in 1940, despite the views of others in the War Cabinet)

The sound we were hearing that late Autumnal day in 1940 was very different. It was the cutting out of the engine and then, spluttering and restarting, an obvious case of fuel starvation to the Merlin. I was a keen aircraft spotter in those days and dashed outside our bomb wrecked house in S. W. London, with my infant sister.

We watched in horror to see a silver Spitfire, turning and twisting inside the balloon barrage area, some of which were based in London parks, others moored on barges on the Thames. Without power the Spitfire was almost certainly doomed not to survive the day.

As this was a silver (unpainted) aircraft coming from the north, it was one being delivered to one of the London airfields from the factory at Castle Bromwich Birmingham, to make up the losses the decimated Royal Air Force suffered during the recent Battle of Britain. It was almost certainly piloted by a young lady pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary, who had obviously become lost and strayed into the lethal balloon defences. Maybe in desperation she was aiming for Hurlingham Polo ground or the muddy Thames to attempt a ‘ditching'.

We watched for the inevitable climax to this drama and, before our horrified gaze, we saw a wing torn off by a balloon cable. It fluttered down like an autumn leaf. The remainder of the doomed aircraft went into a rapid and violent spin, leaving the helpless pilot held in the cockpit by centrifugal force. The usual funeral pyre of black smoke rose from the area near Fulham Football Ground with the pilot trapped inside and incinerated, as so many of these brave youngsters were.

We were in shock and my infant sister cried out ‘poor little Spitfire'. There was nothing to add to that heartfelt childish sentiment.

Jack Thane


		`Aviation in Louth U3A`

	The AVIATION GROUP meet at 11 am at the Golf Club Every Monday So pop along if you feel like it. It is an informal drop in for coffee and a chat where anyone with aviation interests is very welcome. This is a chance for recollections and exchanging flying news. Contact people for the meantime is Ken Hickling aviation.10@louthu3a.org.uk - - o O o - - The Death of a Spitfire The fabulous Merlin engine of the charismatic Spitfire, along with the steadfast Hurricane, our saviours and protectors from the mighty Luftwaffe, could purr, scream like a woman, or emit a thunderous roar. (This was similar to the Churchillian roar of defiance when asked to surrender after the collapse of France in 1940, despite the views of others in the War Cabinet) The sound we were hearing that late Autumnal day in 1940 was very different. It was the cutting out of the engine and then, spluttering and restarting, an obvious case of fuel starvation to the Merlin. I was a keen aircraft spotter in those days and dashed outside our bomb wrecked house in S. W. London, with my infant sister. We watched in horror to see a silver Spitfire, turning and twisting inside the balloon barrage area, some of which were based in London parks, others moored on barges on the Thames. Without power the Spitfire was almost certainly doomed not to survive the day. As this was a silver (unpainted) aircraft coming from the north, it was one being delivered to one of the London airfields from the factory at Castle Bromwich Birmingham, to make up the losses the decimated Royal Air Force suffered during the recent Battle of Britain. It was almost certainly piloted by a young lady pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary, who had obviously become lost and strayed into the lethal balloon defences. Maybe in desperation she was aiming for Hurlingham Polo ground or the muddy Thames to attempt a ‘ditching'. We watched for the inevitable climax to this drama and, before our horrified gaze, we saw a wing torn off by a balloon cable. It fluttered down like an autumn leaf. The remainder of the doomed aircraft went into a rapid and violent spin, leaving the helpless pilot held in the cockpit by centrifugal force. The usual funeral pyre of black smoke rose from the area near Fulham Football Ground with the pilot trapped inside and incinerated, as so many of these brave youngsters were. We were in shock and my infant sister cried out ‘poor little Spitfire'. There was nothing to add to that heartfelt childish sentiment. *Jack Thane*