Ginger Lacey: Fighter Pilot Read online

  GINGER LACEY

  Fighter Pilot

  Battle of Britain Top Scorer

  RICHARD TOWNSHEND BICKERS

  © Richard Townshend Bickers 1962

  Richard Townshend Bickers has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 1962 by Robert Hale Limited.

  This edition published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2014.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Preface

  CHAPTER ONE - Blooding

  CHAPTER TWO - Beginnings

  CHAPTER THREE - The Balloon Goes Up

  CHAPTER FOUR - France

  CHAPTER FIVE - The Fall of France

  CHAPTER SIX - The Battle of Britain

  CHAPTER SEVEN - The Height of the Battle

  CHAPTER EIGHT - The Blitz

  CHAPTER NINE - On Rest—Back on Ops

  CHAPTER TEN - Get Your Knees Brown

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - Commanding No. 17 Squadron

  CHAPTER TWELVE - From Burma to Malaya

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - The First Spitfire Over Japan

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Nec Deus Intersit, Nisi Dignus Vindice Nodus

  Epilogue

  Glossary of Fighter Code Words

  To Richard and David

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to acknowledge with thanks the help given to me by the Air Ministry Air Historical Branch, which allowed me access to official records.

  I also have the pleasure to acknowledge with gratitude letters of reminiscence and photographs received from the following who served under Sqdn. Ldr. Lacey in No. 17 Sqdn.: R. H. G. Britton, D. K. Healey, B. S. Thompson, D. M. Leighton, D. A. Walde; and A. H. Witteridge (155 Sqdn.).

  Foreword

  by Air Chief Marshal Sir William Elliot,

  G.C.V.O., K.C.B., K.B.E., D.F.C.

  It is perhaps characteristic of us as a nation that we are content to relegate our heroes to fiction and reluctant to recognize them in real life—and even when we do, never to call them such. Had the principal character of this book been born a Russian he would, and rightly, have been made a Hero of the Soviet Union. Instead, typically and incorrigibly, James Lacey, the Englishman from Yorkshire, will go down to posterity simply as ‘Fighter Pilot’, and sportingly as ‘Battle of Britain Top Scorer’. I, for one, would not have it otherwise, if only because I suspect that the hero himself would recoil at the mere suggestion of the more grandiloquent version.

  I met Lacey only once, fittingly on a Fighter airfield, and the impression which he made on me fits very well with the sketch which the writer has so sympathetically drawn of him. This single encounter would hardly seem to justify his request that I should write this Foreword, nor the fact that twice in our lives he was—though only indirectly and remotely owing to the difference in our ages and thus in our ranks—under my command. And so I am left to invent my own theory. Five years before he joined it, I commanded 501 Squadron. Thus I feel, and like to believe, that it may have been his thought to appoint me as his link to make his acknowledgement to that brotherhood of Officers, N.C.O.s and men who, in the days of peace, laid the foundations of comradeship, sound training and accurate flying which later he turned to such glorious account in time of war. Two of these are mentioned as having been his companions in arms when the Squadron went to France on 10th May, 1940, Flight Lieutenant Charles Griffiths and Flying Officer A. D. Pickup, and there must have been others whose names do not actually appear in the text.

  And so we come to the main theme of the book, the part which Lacey played in the Battle of Britain. In his treatment of this, the author deserves great credit. Himself an airman, he has sought to be not only the chronicler, the narrator and the biographer, but also the romanticist. Climbing into the cockpit of Lacey’s Hurricane, rarely less than four and often eight times a day, he rockets us into the racing, break-neck, 300-mile-an-hour fight, twenty to thirty thousand feet above the peaceful fields of Kent and Sussex, day in day out, week after week. Here we become onlookers of a fantastic and awe-inspiring scene, that of the fiercest and most deadly form of big game hunting in the world, the fighter pilot pitted against his own kind—brave, determined and alert; cunning, stealthy and ruthless; an unerring marksman and complete master of his machine. Returning to earth, he is so weary and nerve-wracked that he immediately drops asleep under the shadow of his aircraft and vomits each time that he is woken by the Tannoy to renew his place in the terrible battle which was to prove as much for the survival of his country as of himself. He killed not with the thought of killing. ‘It did not occur to him as a fight between himself and another man, but as a totally impersonal combat between two aircraft. Moreover, in his philosophy, then as now, human life was only a speck of dust in the universe and not worth worrying about greatly.’

  The battle was not of the choosing of the young men who fought it, but once it was joined, they threw themselves into it with a selfless and skilful heroism which at the time drew praise from the greatest living Englishman in words which ensure that their names and deeds are immortal. For me it is a privilege to have been given the opportunity as one of the very ordinary ‘many’ to pay my particular tribute to one of the most extraordinary of the ‘few’. And not only to him but to all and every one of the ‘few.’ ‘Just by being airborne, reacting to each German raid, they were saving the world.’ To them, on behalf of the rest of us, I address, with the kind permission of Mrs Cecil Hunt, this grace which her husband wrote and used as the chairman of the Paternosters Club during the Battle of Britain—‘For good fellowship in freedom and for those who made it possible, we give thanks.’

  Stourpaine House,

  Nr. Blandford, Dorset.

  Preface

  Two achievements distinguish James Harry Lacey from other men: in the Battle of Britain he destroyed more enemy aircraft than any other pilot in Fighter Command; and one of them was the Heinkel that had bombed Buckingham Palace.

  It may be argued that the latter was fortuitous, but the circumstances in which he took off on the sortie demanded a rare kind of resolution; moreover, there must be a special place in the hearts of everyone with any allegiance to or affection for the British Crown for the man who shewed the enemy that they could not with impunity attack our royal family.

  Of the fact that Ginger Lacey was top scorer in a battle whose victory saved Great Britain from total defeat, there can be only one assessment: it was an immortal feat.

  Despite all that has been written about The Few, Lacey’s identity among them, let alone his supremacy, is little known outside the Service; perhaps because he was an N.C.O. at the time.

  When I told him that I wanted to write a book about him he characteristically replied that he doubted whether his story would interest anybody; and he had to be cajoled into this enterprise, for without his co-operation I could not have obtained the material I needed. I appreciate, and so will all those who know him, what an effort it was for him to make this contribution. I embarked on this book with a strong sense of responsibility to its subject, which soon became a realization of a peculiar privilege: it is a deeply touching experience to be entrusted by anyone with a frank revelation of his intimate emotions and experiences.

  I have known Lacey for many years and we have served together both at home and abroad. The first time I heard him addressed by his wife as ‘Jim’ I looked around to see where the stranger was. To the Royal Air Force he is ‘Ginger’ Lacey, a ‘character’: one of our famous people, the subject of numerous legends and a person about whom we are apt to smile when his name is mentioned. I have never met anyone who disl
iked him; or, if they did, admitted to it—for one’s sympathies would instinctively be on Ginger’s side. My own feeling is that anybody who took a poor view of him would be a pretty mean sort of creature. But I know several (including myself) whom he has exasperated, infuriated and baffled: one is inclined to shake one’s head in resignation about him; not as one would at a mere enfant terrible but in acceptance of an incorrigible eccentric. Being a Yorkshireman he is not effusive: he has a direct, relaxed and casual manner which is an honest expression of his indifference to what people think or are; yet he is a friendly person. He has a wide sense of humour, with a notable preference for the macabre, but a kind heart goes with it.

  A man of paradox, the contradictions and surprises are everywhere: in his appearance, his attitude, his character. Essentially, he is a sensitive man who looks at life through eyes which give more warning of the ruthlessness that an outstanding fighter pilot must have than of the amiability which infuses him with such misleading calm.

  CHAPTER ONE - Blooding

  The hand on his shoulder was rough and insistent. He rolled over, turning his back on the importunate presence, pulling the blanket tightly up to his chin, grumbling a rude dismissal; but there was an uncompromising voice, too, and reluctantly he let wakefulness seep through his mind and body.

  ‘Three-o’clock, Sergeant … your early call … time to get up, Sergeant Lacey … you’re on dawn patrol …’ And there was a grubby notebook (Stationery Office issue) to sign opposite his name, as acknowledgment that he had been roused for duty; a stub of pencil, offensive with the smell of ancient, well-licked wood and black lead, was thrust into his unwilling fingers. In the light of a torch stood a grinning airman wearing a leather jerkin buttoned over his jacket; with an air of presenting an award for virtue, he held out an enamel mug of steaming tea. ‘Here you are, Sarge; thought you might like a drop of cha.’

  Sergeant Pilot Lacey heaved himself onto one elbow in the shivering darkness of his tent, grunted an incoherent thanks and gulped gratefully. What an irritating war this was: for six months you flogged up and down the Bristol Channel and the English Channel giving protection to convoys that were never molested when you happened to be around, and keeping your eyes peeled for submarines which weren’t there either. Then they sent the squadron to France, just when it looked as though the bitter English winter of 1939-40 was at last giving way to spring and one could even begin to think about some Easter leave. And what happened? They stuck you down on a Great War grass airfield among a lot of foreigners who wouldn’t know a decent pint of bitter if it was poured down their throats from a gold tankard; they dragged you out to fly before you were decently awake; and where the hell was the enemy, anyway? Not hereabouts, for sure.

  So you wriggled miserably out of your hard, rickety camp bed, wishing you were back in your own comfortable room at home in Wetherby, which was the best place in Yorkshire and therefore, for your money, in the world; or at least in a snug bunk in some Sergeants’ Mess, like the one at Tangmere you had left only three days before. You pulled up your rough serge trousers and tottered blearily to the stream twenty yards away, where you grumblingly washed in cold water that left your fingers numb. You rubbed your chin and gave thanks that you weren’t the hairy sort that couldn’t decently put off shaving until you came back from patrol. You hurriedly tugged on your long, heavy sweater (the famous ‘frock, white’ of the R.A.F. stores vocabulary) and your blue-chilled hands fumbled with the unpolished brass buttons of your tunic. You didn’t feel passably warm until you had zipped up your fur-lined flying boots and Irvine jacket. You groped around for your flying helmet and parachute, silently fell in alongside the other two N.C.O. pilots who were to form the dawn patrol section with you and were no more wide awake or disposed to converse than you were, and trudged to the cookhouse marquee for another mug of scalding tea.

  But you had to hurry. A pale wash of light was already creeping up the sky. Presently you were walking towards the hunch-backed silhouette of your Hurricane I where your ground crew waited. You signed the Form 700 which was your official acceptance of the aircraft as fit to fly and you climbed into the cockpit.

  So far everything had been routine.

  The aircraft, standing unprotected all night, were cold. Lacey saw and heard the engines of his two companions start reluctantly with stabbing flames at the exhaust ports. His own refused to fire. It was a relief to have something on which to vent his annoyance at the whole tedious business of rising early to go off on yet another uneventful patrol. The starter trolley alongside was pouring electricity into the power unit; the engine turned over, the propeller spun; but the engine was too cold to fire.

  He heard the wireless crackle in his headphones and his section leader asked what was the matter.

  ‘Won’t start … of course …’ what a damned silly question. `

  ‘Catch us up if you can … we won’t wait …

  ‘O.K.’ (This was long before the days of ‘Roger’ and ‘Wilco’, those American Army Air Corps importations.)

  Morosely he watched the two Hurricanes waddle forward and go bumping out of sight over the grass. There was no control tower here to give them take-off clearance. He heard the pilots call each other.

  ‘You O.K., Red Two?’

  ‘Yes, O.K. Red One.’

  ‘Right, let’s go.’

  A burst of sound beat into the open canopy of his cockpit and with envy he watched them take off while he feverishly coaxed his own machine into life. They were gone in a twinkling, and then, perversely, his engine coughed, caught and roared at him to get going. He finished his checks and followed his friends.

  ‘Knowing what I do now,’ he says, ‘if I’d had any sense I’d have sat on the ground and waited for them to get back.’ But at the time no thought of the folly of flying alone on an offensive fighter patrol occurred to him. Hopefully he searched for his two intended companions while climbing to 10,000 ft.

  His radio was on, but it was not going to be of much use to him. The fighter squadrons of early 1940 were still equipped with single channel T.R.9.D. H.F. sets. These had worked admirably in England, but since 501 Squadron came to France on the l0th May, they had found that above 15,000 ft they could only receive the Overseas Programme of the B.B.C.: a not entirely unwelcome discovery; and Lacey now looked forward to what he hoped would be a news bulletin. He wanted to know how the battle was going here in France! Instead, he was treated to popular music.

  At 20,000 ft he levelled off and, since he could see nothing of the other two Hurricanes of Red Section, decided to fly towards Sedan where the Germans were reported to have broken through. It was a grand, impressive military phrase, ‘broken through’, and he expected to see a great deal of the smoke and moil of battle. Dawn was fine and clear. There were only a few small, widely scattered clouds beneath him. If the war was being fought down there, conditions for seeing it could not be better.

  True, there was a burning village here and there, but of the enemy there was no sign. Where he had thought to see troop convoys, there were empty roads. He was at too great an altitude to discern detail, but the broad panorama of this threatened area of France on the 13th May, 1940 looked the same as any other part of the country had on any of the three days he had been flying over it.

  Disappointed because it seemed that he was not going to be provided with the opportunity to report anything useful, he flew in a wide circle while he searched the sky for his two section mates. There was no sign of them.

  Then, as he resignedly quartered the Sedan area and whistled under his breath to the sentimental tunes that were gently playing to him by courtesy of the B.B.C., an aircraft came into focus 10,000 ft below.

  He was horrified to find himself suddenly staring down at a Heinkel III bomber. ‘A big, fat Heinkel all on its own,’ as he recalls with relish. But it was truly a moment of horror for him; not because he was immediately confronted with the prospect of being shot at, but because he was unexpectedly called on to exerci
se initiative and decision for which he had not been trained. He was a sergeant pilot and therefore not supposed to think for himself. He wanted his flight commander badly. At the least, he wanted the leadership of some experienced section leader whatever the latter’s rank. At 23 years of age, despite 600 hours of flying in his log book and a year of professional instructing to his credit, a sergeant pilot who was inexperienced of combat and comparatively a novice in the Service could legitimately yearn for his flight commander.

  But his flight commander wasn’t there. Nobody was there, except Sergeant Lacey in his Hurricane and 10,000 ft below him the Heinkel which had not yet spotted him. For a couple of minutes he orbited, looking with curiosity at this potential victim while it cruised unconcernedly and with no sign that it was about to carry out a bombing run on some target. What should he do? Presumably he ought to attack it: but it was better not to rush these things; one didn’t want to miss. Besides, this was rather a decent tune that the old B.B.C. was putting over … plenty of time …

  It was then that he spotted the Me. 109: 5,000 ft below, half-way between him and the Heinkel; and that made him want his flight commander even more.

  No. 50l Squadron had been told all about the Messerschmitt 109; in theory. None of them had seen one yet. Here was the first chance for Lacey to pick up some practical experience. And there was no hanging back to weigh it up as one could afford to do with a bomber. The Me. 109 was faster than a Hurricane and had a ceiling 4,000 ft higher; it climbed better.

  The official doctrine taught to fighter pilots was to open the throttle wide and attack at full speed. This was what Lacey duly did, and as he tilted into his dive he heard the B.B.C. announcer say that Jack Teagarden and his orchestra would now play ‘Oh, Johnny!’