Biggin Hill has been hit badly this week when 39 people were killed in a bombing raid on August 30. We were bombed yesterday as well. Then today, just as the bodies from the first attack were being buried at the village cemetery, another attack came in and the mourners had to run for cover. Once they had returned after the all-clear, the Padre finished the service with bombs still exploding in the distance.

The results of the bombing, aside from the deaths, have been devastating.  The airmen’s barracks, the sergeants’ mess, two aircraft and a hangar were destroyed in the attack on the 30^th, but it was a direct hit on an air-raid shelter full of airmen which caused all but one of the casualties. Men worked through the night to recover the bodies. It was a grim scene indeed. In the other attacks, the operations room was destroyed and the runway so badly cratered that while I was up in the air with the other chaps, people were working down on the ground to fill in the holes fast enough so we could land again before we ran out of fuel! I’ve shot down another two enemy bombers - both Dorniers – but there are so many that I can’t help but feel like King Canute standing in the sea as the tide washes over me.

My squadron has been stood down because we’ve seen so much of the action that the 11 Group top brass think we need a rest. But I can’t contemplate leaving Biggin Hill. Not while we’re being attacked. It would feel like running away. So after arguing with my Squadron Leader and the Group Captain and insisting that I remain here, with Frank as my engineer, they finally gave in. But they told me to take a rest first: 48 hours of leave effective as of today. I’m planning to drive down to Dunkirk to see Jane a bit later on.

I’ve never been superstitious but in recent days I realise that my routine before the flight has become meticulous. I always wear my red scarf. I always carry a picture of Jane in my pocket which I take out and kiss as I run across the runway to my plane. And I always get a slap on the back from Frank as he climbs out of the cockpit. In fact, I’ve come to think of him as a lucky charm. Apart from the fact that he’s a damned good engineer, that’s one of the main reasons why I’ve asked for him to remain with me. And it helps that he’s a bloody decent chap too, if a little peculiar.

But I wonder whether all this superstition will add up to anything, or whether it’s actually a lot of nonsense. Perhaps I’ll never know.

I think a lot about poor Henry, down at East Grinstead. I wish I could find the time to visit him. But I should at least write him a letter.