…... I got up on the wing and strapped myself in. I kn
ew all the speeds off by heart but George said, “I will make sure you start her OK then I am off! On your own head be it!”
The Griffon engine crackled into life, temperature and pressures all OK. I waved the chocks away. The air traffic controllers were all civilians and we knew each other. I called for clearance:
“Clear to taxi for local flight, 915.”
At the runway threshold I did the engine run up and take-off checks. No words could explain how I felt. Jubilation? Fear? What if it all went wrong? To say that hell would be to pay made small of it! Too late now!
“915 ready for take off.”
“915 cleared for take off, wind light and variable.”
I taxied on to the runway swinging the nose from side to side to see where I was going. The lack of forward vision did not bother me as I was well accustomed to that back seat in the Harvard. I lined up, final checks, hood back, then gently opened the throttle. The mighty engine seemed anxious to go, and we rolled forward - keep her straight - more power - speed increased quickly - stick forward to lift the tail - full throttle - keep her straight - be ready and alert to counteract any tendency to swing. A last quick check of instruments and speed and then a gentle back pressure on the stick. She lifts off like a graceful bird. I am airborne in a Spitfire. Gear up, speed increases, flaps up, climb away towards Formby. For the next 20 minutes I fly as never before. What was it the Canadian Battle of Britain fighter pilot (John Gillespie Magee) wrote in his poem?
“Oh I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings
Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of.”
My state of euphoria had to come to a close, there being one small thing to attend to: I had to return my precious charge safely to earth.
“Woodvale: 915 rejoining for landing.”
