hydraulic pump. The handle was inconveniently positioned at shoulder height between the two pilots and proved to be locked solid. Away from the circuit, considerable 'G' was applied to no avail. By this time we were low on fuel, having been airborne for over an hour. Getting desperate now, Jenner said I should unstrap myself and kneel on the seat facing aft to allow both hands to work the lever. It still would not budge. Jenner turned his head and tried to assist with his right hand. For a moment his eyes met mine as we strained to move the lever. I saw them widen with alarm at the roar of approaching engines. Before he could take any action, the cockpit darkened as the underbelly of a Valetta flashed past on a reciprocal heading and no more than ten feet above. Our closing speed must have been 300 knots or more.
By now we had only sufficient fuel for one circuit; we would have to land wheels up on the crash-strip. The tower was informed, the crash crews ready and waiting. We unfastened our parachutes and released all connections between ourselves and the aircraft other than the safety harness. Jenner briefed that he would close the HP cock just before touchdown. My job was to press the fire extinguisher button, located on the centre coaming, when we hit the ground.
The approach and landing on the grass of the strip was copybook, marred only by the fact that the grass had not been cut for months and was 18 inches high. My finger, poised over the fire button, waited till we hit terra firma - and firm it was. On contact with the ground the button became a blur, pitching wildly up and down, constantly evading my probing finger. We slithered to a halt. I pressed the button, punched the quick release of my harness, opened the top hatch and grasping the windscreen frame hauled myself out of the cockpit. As a single-seat fighter pilot I didn't sit around in a crashed aeroplane waiting for it to burst into flames.
The fire truck and blood-wagon were already in attendance and the Station Commander driving up in his Opel Kapitan to park by the stricken Vampire's wing. Jenner had still made no move to vacate the cockpit. On someone's orders, the fire crew sprayed the lot, including the Station Commander's Opel, with foam. Seconds later a bedraggled Jenner emerged covered with foam and sporting the brightest and bloodiest nosebleed I had ever seen.
At first I thought his injuries must have been caused during the landing, but he soon informed me of the facts. When I had hauled myself upright, my harness had flailed out, a metal buckle striking him smartly across the nose.
We were never firm friends after that and, of course, my scores did not improve. It was only after another session with a different PAI that I occasionally managed to get 25% of my shells to make holes in the flag. That was considered to be good for air-to-air in those days and I finished that detachment with a 'Good Average' assessment.

* * *

Detachments to Sylt took place twice yearly, one in summer and one in winter, and were a pleasant change from normal squadron life. Members of the Women's Royal Air Force were stationed there, and although we officers were not supposed to fraternize I must admit some of it did go on. There would be clandestine meetings at a bar in the nearby village of Kempten, or excursions to the town of Westerland on the mainland. There, the attractions were the swimming pool with sea waves pounding through it, and a club called The Paintbox which seemed to attract a particular type of clientele. On my first visit to the 'gents' I was somewhat taken aback when a chap dressed in female clothing flounced in, grinned at me, lifted up his skirt and peed in a most manly fashion.
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