Flames over France by Robert Jackson Page A

head for Sedan at full throttle. Bringing up the rear, Armstrong felt a strong sense of unease; the turn towards Sedan had put them with their backs towards Germany, and he almost broke his neck as he swivelled his head from side to side, checking the dangerous sky astern.
    When the action came, it came suddenly. There was a warning shout over the radio, and an instant later half a dozen Me 110s appeared dead ahead, diving steeply towards the haze that hung over the valleys far below. A gabble of excited French voices sounded over the air until Villeneuve’s deep accent cut through them, telling them to shut up.
    “Maintain formation,” he ordered. “Do not attack. I repeat, do not attack.”
    His precise, matter-of-fact tone restrained the French pilots, who were clearly itching to dive after the 110s. It was just as well. A moment later, fifteen more 110s came diving out of the east, and were on top of the Hawks almost before the latter had time to react. Armstrong caught the flash of sunlight on their wings and identified them at once as they closed with the French fighters at terrific speed. Without waiting for orders he turned hard towards the threat, the force of gravity compressing him into his seat. His section leader, a young sergent - chef — the equivalent of an RAF flight sergeant — had the same idea and almost collided with Armstrong as he stood his aircraft on its wingtip.
    A Messerschmitt slid into Armstrong’s field of vision, closing rapidly from the starboard quarter. The German was firing in short bursts, the battery of cannon and machine-guns in its nose twinkling. Armstrong kept on turning towards it; it was the only thing to do. Suddenly, a cloud of smoke enveloped the enemy fighter’s port engine and the 110 half-rolled and dropped away beneath. Armstrong never even saw the aircraft that had fired at it.
    Another 110 appeared in front of Armstrong, weaving uncertainly from side to side, its crew clearly visible under their long transparent cockpit canopy. Armstrong kicked the rudder bar, his fingers pressing the twin triggers, and raked the Messerschmitt from wingtip to wingtip as it skidded through his sight. Its twin-finned tail broke away and whirled past him; the remainder dropped like a stone. He caught a glimpse of the German gunner trying to struggle clear before the 110 vanished.
    He got in another burst at a 110 that fleeted across his nose, and then his guns jammed. With a pair of Messerschmitts turning hard to cut him off and no sign of any friendly fighters, he decided that it was time to make himself scarce. He pushed the Hawk’s nose down, opened the throttle wide and dived hard towards the western side of the Meuse. The Hawk’s acceleration in the dive was phenomenal and he easily outdistanced his pursuers, who followed him for some distance, firing a couple of ineffectual bursts, and then turned away.
    Armstrong cleared the battle area and then, throttling back to husband his remaining fuel, found his way back to Martigny at low level, keeping a watchful eye on the sky to the rear all the way. He landed without incident and taxied in, switching off the engine and climbing stiffly from the cockpit. His ground crew looked at him expectantly, then broke into broad grins and clustered around him as he smiled and raised an index finger to indicate that he had destroyed an enemy aircraft.
    “Only two more, mon capitaine , and you will be an ace,” one of them said. Armstrong looked at him questioningly, and the man explained that under the French system of scoring victories, a pilot who destroyed five enemy aircraft was classed as an ‘ace’; it was something that had come into being in the previous war. Armstrong shrugged; the RAF didn’t bother with such a system, and never had done so. But then, you practically had to rip half a dozen enemy aircraft to shreds with your teeth before the RAF grudgingly gave you any recognition, let alone a medal. Perhaps it was better that