Spitfire: A Very British Love Story

by John Nichol

Denchfield tried to ignore the growing fear that the enemy was close. But a minute later he saw a flash far up behind. He searched the skies. Nothing. He looked ahead. A distance of 800 yards had opened up between him and the rest of the squadron. Damn it. It wasn’t safe to be alone in enemy skies. He did a couple of left and right turns then pushed the throttle open to catch up. ‘I was about halfway back when there was a sudden staccato vibration and sparks seemed to erupt out of my port wingtip. Bloody hell!’ More rounds hit the front. The rudder pedals became useless. ‘As the nose fell away the cockpit filled with a white mist accompanied by the foul smell of glycol and 100-octane fuel.’ The mist cleared and he was able to assess the damage. He was at 9,000ft and still flying. Then the oil and radiator temperature began to rise, followed by a strong smell of petrol. ‘Nearly twenty gallons of fuel were sloshing about in the belly of the fuselage under my feet. I now knew why my lower legs were so cold. Inside my flying boots and my trouser legs were saturated with the damn stuff. ‘Some six minutes after being hit I was down to maybe 6,000ft with the radiator temperature almost in the red. I could see the Channel and the Blenheims pass about 1,000ft above me on their way home, going like the Devil.’ He was never going to make it over the Channel. With petrol sloshing at his feet he undid the Sutton harness straps. Smoke followed by jets of flame came out of the engine. Th...