Scott Desmond. - Typhoon Pilot

The travels of Desmond Scott and his New Zealand Squadrons.

I was brought up with horses, and it was therefore only natural, when I left grammar school, that I joined the Territorial Army and became a trooper in our Canterbury Yeomanry Cavalry. The rattle of spurs, the mature conversation of older men and the orchestrated performance of our horses, was a welcome change from the classroom, but life in the cavalry had its sore points too, as I was quick to learn.

One day while on manoeuvres, our troop was attacked by two Bristol Fighter planes, ancient relics of the First World War, and flown by pilots of the New Zealand Air Force. As they swooped low over our heads, my horse, which normally had the heart of a lion, took the bit in his teeth and bolted. One of the pilots, savouring my predicament, persistently pressed home his attacks and, several fences and a few ditches later, Toby and I parted company. To add insult to injury, I received an impolite hand signal from above, and decided there and then, if I was to fight my wars in a sitting position I would need a steed that could not only fly, but outsprint any opposition.

When our annual camp disbanded, I began taking flying lessons in an Aero Club Gypsy Moth, but in those days dual instruction was 30 shillings an hour, and consequently my progress was expensive and slow. However, after a total of six and a half hours dual instruction, I managed to go solo, and was saved from my creditors by a stroke of good forturne. Just prior to Hitlers indiscretions, our government introduced a scheme in which successful applicants were given 40 hours flying at the taxpayers expense. Much to my surprise, my application was successful. About the same time that I had completed my 40 hours, England declared war on Germany. I promptly received a registered letter from our Air Department reminding me of a small clause at the bottom of our contract. Thus I was compelled to leave the cavalry and became a member of His Majestys Junior Service, but it was not until August, 1940, and after much flying in antiquated Fairey Gordons, that I finally set sail for the other side of the world to take my place among the survivors of Churchills few.

Flying Hurricanes was a far cry from piloting slow old biplanes, but again I was lucky, for my first operational posting was to the Orkney Islands, a relatively quiet area in Hitlers blitz. A few weeks protecting part of the British Fleet at Scapa Flow gave me the opportunity to gain the necessary experience that helped me to survive in No 11 Group, the RAFs hot spot, which included London and most of the south coast. It was in this prestigious company that I spent the following four years.

Hurricanes were already the work horse of Fighter Command and for nearly two years I piloted them on almost every type of operation. There were many nights when I flew above a burning London. I participated in daylight shipping attacks along the French and Belgian coasts and acted as close escort to Blenheim and Stirling bombers, on raids that were aptly code-named Circuses. I survived a mid-air collision with one of No 23 Squadrons Havocs, and it was also from a long-range Hurricane that I watched Cologne explode, as a thousand RAF bombers emptied their war load from the night sky. As with our adversaries, our offensive operations were often more spectacular than successful. Nonetheless, all were hazardous, and the experience gained by those who survived was always sorely won.

When I had completed the equivalent of two operational tours, I began to feel the strain and did not object when I was promoted to Squadron Leader and posted on rest to a temporary staff appointment at Bentley Priory, the headquarters of Fighter Command.

No sane pilot would have wanted a posting to a Typhoon squadron in the winter of 1942. New types of aircraft always had their faults, but the Typhoon had far more than most. For a start, its huge 24-cylinder Napier Sabre liquid-cooled engine was far from dependable. If it stopped dead while you were in the air, you were faced with two alternativesover the side, or the gliding angle of a seven-ton brick. Even worse was its tail section. For reasons which even the experts could not fathom, several Typhoons had shed their tails and buried themselves and their pilots in very deep holes.