Free The Last Enemy Richard Hillary by Richard Hillary Page B

found myself memorizing every detail of his appearance with the clearness of a condemned man on his way to the scaffold—the chin sunk into the folds of a polo sweater, the leather pads on the elbows, and the string-darned hole in the seat of the pants. He caught my look of anxiety and grinned.
    ‘Don’t worry; you’ll be surprised how easy she is to handle.’
    I hoped so.
    The Spitfires stood in two lines outside ‘A’ Flight Pilots’ room. The dull grey-brown of the camouflage could not conceal the clear-cut beauty, the wicked simplicity of their lines. I hooked up my parachute and climbed awkwardly into the low cockpit. I noticed how small was my field of vision. Kilmartin swung himself on to a wing and started to run through the instruments. I was conscious of his voice, but heard nothing of what he said. I was to fly Spitfire. It was what I had most wanted through all the long dreary months of training. If I could fly a Spitfire, it would be worth it. Well, I was about to achieve my ambition and felt nothing. I was numb, neither exhilarated nor scared. I noticed the white enamel undercarriage handle. ‘Like a lavatory plug,’ I thought.
    ‘What did you say?’
    Kilmartin was looking at me and I realized I had spoken aloud. I pulled myself together.
    ‘Have you got all that?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Well, off you go then. About four circuits and bumps. Good luck!’
    He climbed down.
    I taxied slowly across the field, remembering suddenly what I had been told: that the Spitfire’s prop was long and that it was therefore inadvisable to push the stick too far forward when taking off; that the Spitfire was not a Lysander and that any hard application of the brake when landing would result in a somersault and immediate transfer to a ‘Battle’ Squadron. Because of the Battle’s lack of power and small armament this was regarded by everyone as the ultimate disgrace.
    I ran quickly through my cockpit drill, swung the nose into wind, and took off. I had been flying automatically for several minutes before it dawned on me that I was actually in the air, undercarriage retracted and half-way round the circuit without incident. I turned into wind and hauled up on my seat, at the same time pushing back the hood. I came in low, cut the engine just over the boundary hedge, and floated down on all three points. I took off again. Three more times I came round for a perfect landing. It was too easy. I waited across wind for a minute and watched with satisfaction several machines bounce badly as they came in. Then I taxied rapidly back to the hangars and climbed out nonchalantly. Noel, who had not yet soloed, met me.
    ‘How was it?’ he said.
    I made a circle of approval with my thumb and forefinger.
    ‘Money for old rope,’ I said.
    I didn’t make another good landing for a week.
    The flight immediately following our first solo was an hour’s aerobatics. I climbed up to 12,000 feet before attempting even a slow roll.
    Kilmartin had said ‘See if you can make her talk.’ That meant the whole bag of tricks, and I wanted ample room for mistakes and possible blacking-out. With one or two very sharp movements on the stick I blacked myself out for a few seconds, but the machine was sweeter to handle than any other that I had flown. I put it through every manoeuvre that I knew of and it responded beautifully. I ended with two flick rolls and turned back for home. I was filled with a sudden exhilarating confidence. I could fly a Spitfire; in any position I was its master. It remained to be seen whether I could fight in one.
    We also had to put in an oxygen climb to 28,000 feet, an air-firing exercise, formation attacks, and numerous dogfights.
    The oxygen climb was uneventful but lengthy. It was interesting to see what a distance one ended up from the aerodrome even though climbing all the way in wide circles. Helmet, goggles, and oxygen mask gave me a feeling of restriction, and from then on I always flew with my