Laurent
Here is the extract from memoirs of Jerzy Główczewski, all due credit solely to him. He is well and going to visit Poland this Spring. Do you want to meet him?
Franek
CHAPTER 8 (P) Squadron 308
The Polish Fighter Wing 131(P) was a self-sufficient unit with its own technical and maintenance personnel. In view of frequent changes of airfields this was necessary to guarantee its constant readiness and top efficiency. Our first airfield worthy of its name, following the previously used mere meadows, was B51 Lille-Vandeville. Wing 131 comprised three squadrons, altogether more than three score Spitfire IXs and auxiliary planes. However, we had to share both the grounds of the base and the airspace with a number of other allied units. One had to queue for landing and woe to the pilot running out of fuel. Something like that happened to me once.
The sun had already set on October 1, 1944, when we were returning to base from a long mission: the successful bombing of German military installations near Dordrecht in Holland and wide ranging reconnaissance. My fuel supply appeared to be dwindling at an alarming rate. I kept glancing at my fuel gauge, increasingly concerned. Why was I in trouble while the others were not? This was my fifth combat flight and I did not like it one little bit. Was the fuel tank leaking, damaged by anti-aircraft fire? I reported to my squadron leader, who instructed me to request ground control permission for an emergency landing. As we neared the landing strip, at about 3000 feet, the air controller instructed me: „O.K., Einsworth 4… hurry up… slide through the slot just ahead of you.”
I was on a 180° course to the runway and reduced the Spitfire’s altitude. I aimed at the small break between two planes the controller had pointed out to me. I jammed the controls and began a left wing glide through a sharp left turn, losing altitude precipitously, a landing manoeuvre that I knew would be effective but smacked of showing-off. I pulled the plane out of its glide just above the runway. I cut the engine, but I was higher than I was supposed to be. Seconds later I was jolted by the hard thud of the undercarriage hitting the ground and, as it gently folded, the plane skidded sideways on its belly, off the hard surface onto the grassy shoulder. The propeller hit the ground and its three blades folded round the boss like flower petals.
An ambulance arrived. Seeing me standing by the plane unharmed the driver shouted at me to jump in. At the dispersal hut, the squadron leader, Major Witold Retinger, was already waiting for my report. He was not particularly concerned and requested a report on the condition of the plane, before and after landing, from service personnel. The next morning the report was in: I had an adequate supply of petrol, but the Spitfire’s fuel gauge had malfunctioned; there was no need for my emergency landing. There was, however, bullet damage in the hydraulic system of the undercarriage; the plane must have been hit during the mission.
Unwittingly, I had managed at the same time to suffer my first hit and crash my first plane. I was admonished and warned to take better care of my takeoffs and landings.