over Dunkerque had slightly dissipated,
but now he realized he was in mortal danger yet again.
Almost immediately his observer told him that a fighter had
just turned away – then he added in a slightly tenser voice that
another fighter was coming at them out of the sun on the starboard
side. It was a FrenchDewoitine D.520. These were
modern fighters, fitted with a 20mm cannon and four
machine guns. They had the same speed as a Messerschmitt
and were equally if not more manoeuvrable, allegedly having
a turning circle smaller than the German fighters.
Pearson knew he was in trouble. By now every Swordfish
pilot realized that there was only one way to get out of this
situation, and that was to use the aircraft's superior slow-speed
manoeuvrability. He was already flying at a height of
100 feet above the sea, a situation that most fast fighter pilots
find uncomfortable. As soon as his observer told him where
the fighter was, Pearson made a tight turn into him and a
burst of bullets churned up the surface of the sea to port. The
fighter came round again and made another attack. Pearson
repeated his manoeuvre, with the same results. The fighter
broke away, then made a stern attack. Pearson knew that his
Swordfish was being hit, and he made a tight 180-degree turn
to fly underneath the French fighter, who gave up the chase,
perhaps nervous at how low he was getting – a tight turn at
slow speed might be fatal at barely 100 feet above the sea.
Then Pearson saw another Dewoitine: for the first time he
realized there were two of them. He was nowhere near out of
the woods. Yet again, gunfire poured into the ocean as
Pearson, sweat pouring cold down his back, his mouth dry,
yanked his plane into the tightest possible turn and kept it
there, his engine thundering away until the Dewoitine
appeared through the disc of his whirling propeller. Then he
pressed the button on his stick. The single fixed machine gun
in the nose of the Swordfish added another metallic hammering
to the cacophony around him as bursts of flame stabbed
out of the recessed barrel. Fifty rounds were fired, filling the
cockpit with the acrid smell of cordite. It was unlikely that a
single one of his bullets did any damage, but the second
French pilot didn't want to give Pearson another chance and
he too was gone, clawing for the sky with all of his aircraft's
330-miles-an-hour speed – faster than the Swordfish and carrying
enough cannon and machine guns to rip it to shreds, but
outwitted and outmanoeuvred.
Elated, amazed at what he had just done, the young sublieutenant
flew on to rendezvous with the Ark. Once the plane
was down in the hangar, the riggers started totting up the
damage. A cannon shell had smashed through the fuselage
cowling on the port side of the cockpit and burst on the starboard
aileron. One bullet had smashed the radio transmitter
and another had twisted the ring of the TAG's rear-firing
Lewis gun. It had been a very narrow escape for the observer,
Lieutenant Prendergast. Some frames in the fuselage had been
damaged, and several ribs in the lower wing had been hit, as
had the centre-section rear main spar. The torpedo-release
mechanism had also been hit and destroyed.
Dunkerque, meanwhile, had been hit by five torpedoes and
was most definitely out of action. It had been another highly
successful day, but the vagaries of the torpedowarheads were
obvious, and they were unsettling. Dunkerque had been a
stationary target, and out of nine torpedoes that had been
observed to hit her, three had definitely failed to detonate.
Whether this was the reason for Strasbourg appearing to
shrug off what seemed a perfectly timed and coordinated
attack two days earlier was hard to know.
It was an open secret when I joined 818 Squadron that
pilots on the Ark were doubtful about the efficiency of the
newDuplex triggers, but Admiralty instructions were clear:
they were to be fitted and used unless there was no alternative.
The torpedoes carried by the Swordfish
but now he realized he was in mortal danger yet again.
Almost immediately his observer told him that a fighter had
just turned away – then he added in a slightly tenser voice that
another fighter was coming at them out of the sun on the starboard
side. It was a FrenchDewoitine D.520. These were
modern fighters, fitted with a 20mm cannon and four
machine guns. They had the same speed as a Messerschmitt
and were equally if not more manoeuvrable, allegedly having
a turning circle smaller than the German fighters.
Pearson knew he was in trouble. By now every Swordfish
pilot realized that there was only one way to get out of this
situation, and that was to use the aircraft's superior slow-speed
manoeuvrability. He was already flying at a height of
100 feet above the sea, a situation that most fast fighter pilots
find uncomfortable. As soon as his observer told him where
the fighter was, Pearson made a tight turn into him and a
burst of bullets churned up the surface of the sea to port. The
fighter came round again and made another attack. Pearson
repeated his manoeuvre, with the same results. The fighter
broke away, then made a stern attack. Pearson knew that his
Swordfish was being hit, and he made a tight 180-degree turn
to fly underneath the French fighter, who gave up the chase,
perhaps nervous at how low he was getting – a tight turn at
slow speed might be fatal at barely 100 feet above the sea.
Then Pearson saw another Dewoitine: for the first time he
realized there were two of them. He was nowhere near out of
the woods. Yet again, gunfire poured into the ocean as
Pearson, sweat pouring cold down his back, his mouth dry,
yanked his plane into the tightest possible turn and kept it
there, his engine thundering away until the Dewoitine
appeared through the disc of his whirling propeller. Then he
pressed the button on his stick. The single fixed machine gun
in the nose of the Swordfish added another metallic hammering
to the cacophony around him as bursts of flame stabbed
out of the recessed barrel. Fifty rounds were fired, filling the
cockpit with the acrid smell of cordite. It was unlikely that a
single one of his bullets did any damage, but the second
French pilot didn't want to give Pearson another chance and
he too was gone, clawing for the sky with all of his aircraft's
330-miles-an-hour speed – faster than the Swordfish and carrying
enough cannon and machine guns to rip it to shreds, but
outwitted and outmanoeuvred.
Elated, amazed at what he had just done, the young sublieutenant
flew on to rendezvous with the Ark. Once the plane
was down in the hangar, the riggers started totting up the
damage. A cannon shell had smashed through the fuselage
cowling on the port side of the cockpit and burst on the starboard
aileron. One bullet had smashed the radio transmitter
and another had twisted the ring of the TAG's rear-firing
Lewis gun. It had been a very narrow escape for the observer,
Lieutenant Prendergast. Some frames in the fuselage had been
damaged, and several ribs in the lower wing had been hit, as
had the centre-section rear main spar. The torpedo-release
mechanism had also been hit and destroyed.
Dunkerque, meanwhile, had been hit by five torpedoes and
was most definitely out of action. It had been another highly
successful day, but the vagaries of the torpedowarheads were
obvious, and they were unsettling. Dunkerque had been a
stationary target, and out of nine torpedoes that had been
observed to hit her, three had definitely failed to detonate.
Whether this was the reason for Strasbourg appearing to
shrug off what seemed a perfectly timed and coordinated
attack two days earlier was hard to know.
It was an open secret when I joined 818 Squadron that
pilots on the Ark were doubtful about the efficiency of the
newDuplex triggers, but Admiralty instructions were clear:
they were to be fitted and used unless there was no alternative.
The torpedoes carried by the Swordfish
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