BLITZKRIEG
(Another recovery that was not an East Anglian Aircraft Research Group excavation, but one that I was involved with.)
Published in 1941, Paul Richey's 'Fighter
Pilot' became an overnight classic. Based on his journals, kept as a Pilot
Officer with No1 Sqn, it documents their time in France from the outbreak of war
until the German invasion and occupation of the Low Countries, from Phoney War
to Blitzkrieg. It describes the boredom of patrols, of moving bases, of making
friends, of primitive conditions and the excitement of combat and the horror of
war.
Paul Richey with his 'beloved G'
During the German onslaught he was shot down three times, twice he had to parachute the last time he force-landed his Hurricane with severe wounds, wounds that were to prevent his return to operational flying for ten months. Paul Richey retired from the RAF as a Wing Commander in 1952.
On 11th May, the day after the German attack had begun, A flight of No 1 Sqn were ordered to patrol 'Panther' ( the HQ at Reims) to intercept two Do17s. Here they found that there were thirty bombers escorted by fifteen Bf110 twin engine fighters. The five Hurricanes climbed up to attack the 110s.
Paul Richey described the ensuing dogfight thus in Fighter Pilot;
We went in fast in a tight
bunch, each picking a 110 and manoeuvring to get on his tail. I selected the
rear one of two in line-astern who were turning tightly to the left. He broke
away from his No 1 when he had done a half-circle and steepened his turn, but I
easily turned inside him, holding my fire until I was within fifty yards and
then firing a shortish burst at three- quarters deflection. To my surprise a
mass of bits flew off him-pieces of engine-cowling and lumps of his glasshouse
(hood)-and as I passed just over the top of him, still in a left-hand turn, I
watched with a kind of fascinated horror as he went into a spin, smoke pouring
out of him. I remember saying 'My God, how ghastly!' as his tail suddenly
swivelled sideways and tore off, while flames streamed over the fuselage. Then I
saw a little white parachute open beside it. Good!
Scarcely half a minute had
passed, yet as I looked quickly around me I saw four more 11 Os go down-one with
its tail off, a second in a spin, a third vertically in flames, and a fourth
going up at forty-five degrees in a left-hand stall-turn with a little Hurricane
on its tail firing into its side, from which burst a series of flashes and long
shooting red flames. I shall never forget it.
All the 110s at my level were
hotly engaged, so I searched above. 'Yes-those buggers up there will be a
nuisance soon!' Three cunning chaps were out of the fight, climbing like mad in
line-astern to get above us to pounce. I had plenty of ammunition left, so I
climbed after them with the boost-override pulled. They were in a slight
right-hand turn, and as I climbed I looked around. There were three others over
on the right coming towards me, but they were below. I reached the rear 110 of
the three above me. He caught fire after a couple of bursts and dived in flames.
Then I dived at the trinity coming up from the right and fired a quick burst at
the leader head-on.
I
turned, but they were still there; so were the other two from above. In a moment
I was in the centre of what seemed a stack of 110s, although there were in fact
only five. I knew I had scarcely the speed or height in my wooden-blader to dive
away and beat it, so I decided to stay and make the best of it. Although I was
more manoeuvrable at this height than the Huns, I found it impossible to get in
an astern shot because every time I almost got one lined up tracers came
whipping past from another on my tail. All I could do was to keep twisting and
turning, and when a 110 got behind me make as tight a turn as possible, almost
spinning with full engine, and fly straight at him, fire a quick burst, then
push the stick forward and dive under his nose. I would then pull up in a steep
climbing turn to meet the next gentleman.
Obviously
they couldn't all attack at once without colliding, but several times I was at
the apex of a cone cannon and machine-gun fire of three of them. Their tactics
consisted mostly of diving, climbing and taking shots at me. Their shooting
seemed wild. This manoeuvre was easily dealt with by turning towards them and
popping over their heads, forcing them to steepen their climb until they stalled
and had to fall away. But I was not enjoying this marathon. Far from it. My
mouth was getting drier and drier, and I was feeling more and more desperate and
exhausted. Would they run out of ammunition? Would they push off? Would help
come ? I knew I couldn't hold out much longer.
After
what seemed an age ( actually it turned out to be at least fifteen minutes,
which is an exceptionally long time for a dogfight) I was flying down head-on at
a 110 which was climbing up to me. We both fired - and I thought I had left it
too late and we would collide. I pushed the stick forward violently. There was a
stunning explosion right in front of me. For an instant my mind went blank. My
aircraft seemed to be falling, limp on the controls. Then, as black smoke poured
out of the nose and enveloped the hood, and a hot blast and a flicker of
reflected flame crept into the dark cockpit, I said' Come on - out you go and
pulled the pin out of my harness, wrenched open the hood and hauled myself
head-first out to the right.
The
wind pressed me tightly against the side of the aircraft, my legs still inside.
I caught hold of the trailing of the wing and heaved myself out. As I fell free
and somersaulted I felt as if
I heard the whirr of Hun
engines and saw three of the 110s circle me. I looked at the ground and saw a
shower of flaming sparks as something exploded in an orchard far below: my late
aeroplane.
The
Hun engines faded and died. I rolled the ripcord round its D-ring and put it in
my pocket as a souvenir. I was still bloody frightened, as I was smack over a
wood and thought I'd probably break my legs if I landed in it; and I confess
without shame that I reeled off several prayers, both of thanks and
supplication, as I dangled in the air. I was soon low enough to see my drift. It
was towards a village, and it looked as though I might clear the trees only to a
hit a roof. But no - it was to be the wood all right. I was very low now,
swinging gently. I saw two French gendarmes running along the road, first one
way, then the other. I waved to them. The trees rushed up at me. Now for it! I
relaxed completely, shutting my eyes calmly. There was a swish of branches and a
bump as I did a back-somersault on the ground. I had fallen between the trees.
The witnesses recalled Paul Richey landing by parachute and it was interesting to read his account on the spot it happened.
Above; The wood behind the group is where he landed, the village is a little down the road to the left.
I
jumped up as the two gendarmes came crashing through the trees, one with a
revolver in his hand and the other carrying a rifle. 'Haut les mains!' they
shouted, pointing their weapons at me. I raised my arms as they advanced
cautiously. I was wearing white overalls over my uniform and still had my helmet
and oxygen mask on. I spoke through the mask with difficulty and they refused to
believe I was English, but I eventually managed to persuade them to look for the
RAF wings under my overalls. Having done this, they put down their weapons and
embraced me warmly.
In 2000 the crash site of the Hurricane was found near Brunehamel, the field in
which it crashed had never been ploughed since the crash. The gouged scar where
Paul Richey's aircraft hit the ground was clearly visible. The Hurricane had hit
the ground inverted at an angle of around 60º, the impact point was a the top
of a steep slope and many pieces were spread around the lower part of the
meadow. With the assistance of French colleagues a recovery was planned.
A return trip to France for the excavation revealed the Merlin engine, (below left) several lumps of wooden Watts two blade propeller, and cockpit items including the gunsight used in the destruction of the 110's(bottom) and makers identification plate (below right) confirming it as Hawker Hurricane MkI L1685.
The Merlin was given to a local French military museum, 'Musee du Souvenir Militaire de Thierache' at Martigny. This is an excellent example of a privately run museum with items from the Revolution to the Gulf War.
The crash sites of two of the 110s shot down in the same combat were also visited, one in a wood at Aubenton, the other in a farmyard at Rue Laocher. A few parts were found at each site. In both cases the gunner in the aircraft was killed.
Uffz. Willi Weiss (baled out) Obgrf. Bernard Hofeler (killed)
Lt Friedrich Auinger (baled out) Uffz. Erich Ebrecht (killed)
Both crews were from 1/ZG26, the unfortunate Ebrecht was buried by the farmer near to the wreck of his aircraft. When the Germans came to recover the body after the fighting was finished they threatened to shoot the Frenchman - he had buried Ebrecht in the pig pen. Apparently not respectful to the 'master race'.