Who’d have thought that George Sherry Sheridan would save my life? I thought he would be the one most likely to die first, not me. In fact, I didn’t really think that we on the ground were on the ‘front line’ of the war until this week but now I realise that everyone here is a foot soldier in this battle. And unfortunately that means any one of us could die at any moment, not just the pilots.

Biggin Hill was bombed on August 18. It was a surprise attack. The bombers had come in low to avoid being detected. Just before I started the engine on George’s Hurricane, we could hear the distant hum of the bombers coming in. The pilots then rushed to get airborne before the attack was upon us. They made it up into the air just as on the ground we got first sight of the incoming aircraft; nine Dornier bombers flying at just 100 feet above the ground. The AA guns opened up on them as I sprinted for the shelter. I heard the first bombs exploding somewhere to the east but then the second wave of bombers were overhead and as they dropped their load on the runway and MT sheds next to me, I was flung to the floor by the force of an explosion.

I felt a sudden sharp pain in my left leg and lost consciousness. I wasn’t sure how long it was until I opened my eyes again but when I did I was covered in dust and rubble from the ruined shed and I could feel the heat of a fire on my face. I looked around and could tell that the shed just a hundred feet away was an inferno too painful to look at. I needed to get away from the heat but as I tried to stand my leg hurt and I felt dazed from the blast. Instead I started to crawl through the rubble away from the fire, but I soon blacked out again.

The next thing I knew George was giving me a fireman’s lift across the airfield.

‘I thought you were flying,’ I muttered to him.

‘I was, old chap, and now I’m back. Glad they haven’t smashed up the runway too much. Or my engineer.’

The doctor took a look at me and said I was concussed and needed some rest. But he also took a tiny fragment of shrapnel out of my thigh and said I’d been extremely lucky: it had missed my artery by just a fraction of an inch. Sadly the AA gunner from my home town of Solihull was not as lucky as me; he was killed by a bomb blast.

Joyce came to see me yesterday and told me that I was her hero.

‘Why is it that injured men always look so handsome?’ she asked.

‘I expect it’s because you feel you’re in control when we’re like this,’ I said with a smile.

Hopefully I’ll be out of bed tomorrow: George is sharing an engineer with another pilot at the moment and I expect his plane is suffering as a result. He’ll need me to be fit and well as soon as I can be, and I’m sure I can drag a limp along with me when I’m looking at the engine.