Free Mosquito Squadron by Robert Jackson Page B

grass to their aircraft, shadowy outlines in the gloom of the grey dawn. Yeoman stared out across the airfield and thought that he could just make out the shapes of the dispersal huts which had been erected for the use of the Mosquito night fighter squadron, whose arrival had apparently been delayed because of problems with the new AI equipment.
    Yeoman’s ground crew were standing by the Mosquito, and the corporal fitter came up to the pilot with the Form 700, the technical log that certified the aircraft fit to fly. Yeoman inspected it, then signed it.
    ‘Everything’s okay, then,’ he said.
    ‘Top line, sir,’ the corporal replied cheerfully. ‘There was a bit of a mag drop on the port engine, but that’s fixed now. She’ll go like a rocket.’
    Satisfied, Yeoman walked round the aircraft, carrying out his external checks, then climbed the ladder and squeezed himself through the narrow hatch into the cockpit, followed by Hardy. Both men strapped themselves in and Yeoman went into the starting-up sequence, muttering the drill to himself, while Hardy sorted out his maps.
    ‘Master switch, on. Voltmeter showing 24 volts. Bomb doors shut, selector neutral. Bomb control panel, all switches off, guard closed. Undercarriage: emergency knob in normal position, safety catch on. Air pressure okay, 200 p.s.i. Fuel cocks to outer tanks. Throttles one-half inch open, propeller speed controls fully forward, supercharger okay. Radiator flap switches closed, pressure venting on. Fuel transfer cock off, immersed fuel pump switch off.’
    A glance through the perspex assured him that the ground crew were standing by the fuel priming pump, in case there was any trouble in starting up, but the engines had been run only half an hour earlier and priming ought not to be necessary.
    He switched on the ignition, made a signal to the ground crew and then pressed the starter and booster-coil buttons for the port engine, watching the propeller. It began to turn, slowly at first, then its revolutions increased as the Merlin fired with a bang and a cloud of grey smoke. Yeoman repeated the process for the starboard engine; that, too, was soon roaring healthily. As soon as both engines were running, the pilot opened both throttles slowly to 1,200 rpm, checking temperatures, pressures and magnetos. As the oil and coolant temperatures rose satisfactorily, he checked the operation of the hydraulic pumps by opening up each engine to 2,000 rpm in turn and then lowering and raising the flaps. After testing the all-important magnetos again, this time at the take-off rpm, he throttled back and clipped his face mask into place, glancing over at Hardy. Over the intercom, he asked:
    ‘Can you hear me okay, Happy?’
    ‘Loud and clear, skip. We’ve just got a green from the caravan.’
    Yeoman looked across towards the red-and-white control caravan. A green light, the signal to taxi, was flashing from it. The pilot glanced round to make sure that the other three Mosquitos in his section were ready; all their engines were turning and there was no abort signal. He made a list check of the controls and then waved the chocks away. One of the ground crew gave him the ‘thumbs up’ sign and he released the brakes, then opened the throttles a little. A last wave to the ground crew as the Mosquito began to move forward: they were on their way.
    Ungainly on their big, robust undercarriages, lacking all grace until they entered their rightful element, the four Mosquitos of Yeoman’s section waddled round the taxi track towards the end of Burningham’s solitary runway, stopping just short of it while the pilots carried out their take-off checks. Yeoman decided to use fifteen degrees of flap and trimmed the elevators slightly nose-heavy to compensate for it; he also trimmed the rudder a little to the right to cancel out the Mosquito’s slight tendency to swing in the opposite direction. The other checks were completed in seconds.
    ‘All set,