posted 09-09- 06:03 PM
I read this today, it is the story of a BoB pilot who you and I would see as a hero. He himself still finds it difficult to look back at what happened and the pain he feels is obvious. In my opinion it just shows that the sacrifices The Few made were even greater than I had previously thought.We all owe a huge debt to these men and the unsung people who supported them.
"Profiles of the Few" F/L D.Robinson 152 Sqn
CATEGORY: Personnel
When talking or interviewing many of the pilots that took part in the Battle of Britain, you meet a very broad section of those who have stories and experiences that are, in a
way so very different from one another. Some certainly don't mind telling of their stories, while others, like the one below have reservations about what happened during the
1940 period. It is good that we see the sides of both, of being able to share the feelings of those pilots, that under stressful and often unbearable conditions too to the skies.
Not all pilots were gun totting heros as Denis Robinson points out in a reply to Steve Gleeson:
Dear Steve,
Thank you for your last letter. I will try to answer some of your questions. You seem to be asking what sort of young men were we in 1940. I have often wondered
myself.
Certainly we began the year terribly young and immature, but by the end had become men, who had seen things and done things that were to be impregnated in our
memory forever. Many of our friends had been killed. In my squadron of the 22 pilots at the beginning of the battle 12 of them were killed. Many of the
pilots who replaced them were also killed. We cared more about our aircraft than people and were commended for the number of enemy aircraft we destroyed, given medals
and looked upon as heroes.
We had killed and maimed German airmen. The second Me 109 that I destroyed was very close when I pressed the trigger on eight browning machine guns. Almost
immediately heavy black smoke poured from the aircraft. I stop firing as we had only fifteen seconds ammunition and followed the Me 109 down to make sure that it would
not escape to France. As we neared the ground it was clear that the pilot was trying to crash land, I flew up alongside my enemy, slid my cockpit canopy back and could see
him struggling to keep the aircraft under control. He could easily have been any one of the pilots in my squadron. A young man just like me obeying orders and seared to
death. Then suddenly his aircraft went into a vertical dive and exploded on impact. It made me feel sick. I wanted him to get down safely and wave to me standing by his
crashed aircraft.
Much time was spent hanging around on readiness waiting for the phone to ring with instructions from control. When it did the we might get a warning like: "100 plus
forming up over Cherbourg". Then you new that it would be a squadron scramble and a big show. You would sit and wait, this was the worst time
just waiting. When the phone rang again the orderly would shout: "Squadron scramble Angels 15!" In an instant on your feet running to your aircraft. Grab your parachute
off the wing, buckling it on as you scramble into the cockpit. Pull your helmet on which is already attached to radio and oxygen supply. Somehow whilst doing all this you
have started the engine. As you taxi into position for take off you buckle your safety harness. Its a grass field without runways so its just a matter of getting approximately
into wind, keeping a sharp lookout for other aircraft. Full throttle and away you go. Once in the air its a scramble to get into position in the squadron.
My task was known as 'tail end charlie', which was to weave at the rear of the squadron keeping a look out for attack from behind. My great friend was John Ackroyd.
We used to keep an eye on each other and I suppose I owe him my life. Sadly, in combat with enemy fighters over Lyme Regis on October 7th 1940 he was shot down. His
aircraft, Spitfire N3039, crashed and burned out at a small place called Nutmead, Shillingstone. He was severely burned and died the next day. He is buried in the
churchyard of Holy Trinity church, Warmwell. On occasion I visit his grave. It is a moving experience to read the names and ages on the gravestones. They were all so
young. The squadron would be vectored to within sight of the enemy raid and then our squadron leader would position us, if he could, with the sun behind for the attack.
The sight of a hundred plus enemy aircraft is quite daunting.
Squadron after squadron stacked up, one behind the other from about 6,000ft to 30,000ft, making our twelve Spitfires look awfully vulnerable. It was impossible to climb
to a level above the higher enemy aircraft, so in line astern we attacked near the middle of the raid. As 'tail end charlie' I was last in line astern, with John just ahead of me. I
am so close to John's Spitfire that I cannot see the rest of our squadron and once in amongst the enemy raid quickly lost sight of the other Spitfires, even John. German
aircraft everywhere. I find myself closing fast on to the rear of a Heinkel III. Wait till I am within 250 yards before I press the trigger. Eight Browning machine guns use up
the fifteen scconds of available ammunition fast, so it is only a short burst. I see bits coming off the port engine then I am passing below the wing of the Heinkel and closing
on next the enemy squadron ahead. They are probably Do 217 and and I am right in the middle of them. 'There is a lot of tracer streaming all round me and I can feel the
thud of bullets hitting my aircraft.
In a split second I am close enough for another burst of fire, longer this time. I see the rear gunner blown out of his cockpit. Then I am past and below the Dorniers and
amongst a squadron of Me 110s. I am sweating now mouth is so dry. Open fire too early, trying to pull my tracer bullets onto target, not hitting anything. Strangely no return
fire from their gunners. My guns go dead and I have used all my ammo. Time to go into a vertical dive to get away from the raid. The earth comes up awfully fast and I
must pull out in a climbing turning, my eyes searching the sky around for enemy fighters that may have followed me down. Not an aircraft in sight, thank God. This often
happened and never ceased to amaze me.
Return to Warmwell to refuel and rearm. Land at Warmwell, inspect damage with the ground crew and get them started on patching up. Then report to Intelligent Officer
for dc-brief. Cannot claim more than some damage to Heinkel 111 and Do 217. I write the flight time in my pilot's log book. 45 minutes and it is still only morning. There is
a long day ahead waiting and wondering. I talk to John. He does not think he hit anything. We discuss fighter squadron tactics. They are not much like what actually
happened. We never had the opportunity to reform squadron formation and repeat the attack, which is what we should have done. Those of us who did return all landed
separately and as far as I could tell never saw each other in the midst of the battle.
John and I are only Sergeant pilots and very low in the pecking order of the squadron so we do not have much say in what might be done to improve our performance.
Nobody seems to want to talk about
it. Perhaps we are in shock. We just sit around listlessly waiting for the next phone call. Now is the bad time ruminating over past events and wondering how long you can
survive. Will it be quick or will you burn slowly? My thoughts turn to the recent events. I am puzzled by the immaculate way the German aircraft stay in their squadron
positions. A few Spitfires amongst a hundred German aircraft must be hard to see. Did the Germans ever see me? Why was there no return fire from the gunners in the Me
109s I am puzzled with no one to enlighten me. I am too young and unsure to make a protest.
During the battle I flew sixty operational sorties against the enemy from June to September, when I was relieved. By this time I felt utterly drained and exhausted, was
probably given a rest just in time. My value system had changed and youth had gone. I was 22 years old. I have tried to answer your questions, but I am not particularly
happy about this letter. It is so hard to explain what it was really like. Try to imagine how you would feel if every time the phone rang it may be last one you will hear and
you may be going to die, perhaps rather painfully. As for being able to talk and write about it now as J G Ballard put it about
his own experiences in his book 'Empire of the Sun'. "It takes twenty years to manage it and another twenty years to write it".
Sincerely,
Denis N. Robinson, Flight Lieutenant. 152 Squadron, Warmwell 1940
We are indebted to Denis for giving us permission to reproduce this letter to Steve Gleeson. Even after all these years it is obviously painful for Denis to write, and is
a sad reminder of the sacrifices made on our behalf by the "Few". Thank you Denis.
Was it "Paddy" Bathropp who said that " while some of them went out and thought that they were a bunch of little Johnny Waynes, most of them were so scared that they
pooped their pants". So many stories have been based on the Battle of Britain depicting a bunch of glory boys winning a war in easy fashion. The letter above by Denis
shows that it was really a far different affair.
WE WILL REMEMBER THEM
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