Document-29.  


BOBHSOC

A Burning Inferno - A Pilot's Worst Nightmare
The Experience of Geoffrey Page

HURRICANE DOWN

Many pilots throughout the Battle of Britain suffered burns as their Hurricane or Spitfire burst into flames after being hit by gunfire.  

Sometimes you wonder if it had been better if you had been killed instantly rather than suffer the agonizing pain caused by severe burns to the whole of ones body. 
Statement by P/O Ken Carver 229 Squadron RAF 1940
Ken Carver who was with 229 Squadron based at Northolt on September 11th 1940 when he was shot down by a Bf109 while in combat against He111 bombers and Bf109 escort over Maidstone Kent. His Hurricane burst into flames and Ken managed to bale out, but not before he received serious burns to his face and hands. P/O Richard Hillary was another who was shot down off the Kent coast and after managing to escape from his burning Spitfire, he spent a long time in the waters of the Channel off Margate. The salt water stung the raw flesh, and Richard said later that floating helplessly in the Channel and in such pain, you start to think, 'this is the end, and while in the water you think of nothing else except the past.' S/L Tom Gleave, another who succumbed to the burning inferno of his aircraft on August 31st 1940. He mentions how the flames licked his face and body like a blowtorch that will not go out.
I suppose it sounds as if we are having a great time - well I suppose we are really - I'm realizing an ambition, but it's a bit tough to see fellows wiped off one by one. There are only four officers in the squadron, myself included, who have come through September entirely unscathed, and of the five officers, myself again included, who were at Cranwell together, I am the only survivor.........a successful scrap puts me on top of the world - but I won't deny it has its frightening moments. 
P/O George Barclay 249 Squadron 
To try to visualise what it is like to be in this situation, in an aircraft, out of control, flames licking at all parts of your body, the intense heat that becomes unbearable as you fight to get out of the cockpit, let us take a day in the life of P/O Geoffrey Page. A Cranwell graduate, Geoffrey Page was an experienced fighter pilot even by Dunkirk, what one might call a veteran. By the end of August, after his squadron was involved in daily combat operations over the Thames Estuary and the English Channel, Geoffrey Page admitted that he, and many of his comrades were near to exhaustion. 

Geoffrey Page was a sort of sensitive lad who thought that he had the whole world as his oyster as a fighter pilot, he called this period 'the sweet red wine of ones youth' even though prior to the war he was told that he did not have the temperament of a fighter pilot. As a twenty year old, one of his deep fears, was in fact fear itself. Maybe a result of a rather secluded life living with his mother. It has been said that he modelled his life on Albert Ball, a WWI fighter ace. 

Just before dawn on August 12th 1940, Geoffrey Page awoke from a deep sleep, and like many tired pilots it took a while to gather his surroundings. There would be no more sleep for Geoffrey Page that morning, as the first light of day painted a slight glow on the horizon, he knew that within hours he may be up there again, a repeat performance of the day before, the day before that and the day before that. He found sleep hard to come by and decided to complete a letter to an old friend, a portion which contained his thoughts: 

I sometimes wonder..........if the whole war is not a ghastly nightmare from which we'll wake up soon. I know all this sounds nonsense, but I'm slightly tight, and it's only an hour to dawn.......To me, it will mean just another day of butchery......it makes me feel sick. Where are we going and how will it all end? 
P/O Geoffrey Page 56 Squadron August 12th 1940
Geoffrey Page was a tired man, tired not only physically, but mentally. He had seen his fellow comrades killed, sometimes in an agonizing death, he had also killed fellow man himself, is this the price one has to pay for victory? His thoughts would be shared by many, while with others, each kill was another victory, another thrill to add to their lifetime of excitement. 

Through the day, the Luftwaffe had turned its attention to the radar stations along the south-east corner of England, and also for the first time made their attacks on airfields of Fighter Command. By midday, Manston had been attacked and serious damage had been done. It was late afternoon, 56 Squadron were based at Rochford, Geoffrey Page, with many others in the squadron were sprawled out on the grass of the old Southend Flying Club aerodrome, eyes closed, and a copy of an old newspaper resting tent fashion over his face, his thoughts a million miles away: 

Suddenly the telephone rang and ‘Jumbo’ Gracie grabbed for the receiver: ‘Scramble. . . seventy-plus approaching Manston . . . angels one-five.’ In the fighter pilots’ jargon, angels’ signified height per thousand feet, so the message was plain to all: more than seventy German aircraft were approaching Manston at 15,000 feet. It was 5.20 pm on Tuesday, August 12.

There was no time for further reflection. As he pelted the fifty yards to his waiting Hurricane, the suspense was banished and Page’s mind was clear and alert, with only physical action to preoccupy him. Right foot into the stirrup step, left foot on the port wing, one short step along, right foot on the step inset in the fuselage, into the cockpit. Deftly his rigger was passing parachute straps across his shoulders, then the Sutton harness straps. . . pin through and tighten the adjusting pieces. . . mask clipped across and oxygen on. He had primed the engine, adjusting the switches, and now his thumb went up in signal to the mechanics. The chocks slipped away, the Rolls-Royce Merlin engines roared into life, flattening the dancing grass with their slip stream, and Page was taxiing out behind ‘Jumbo’ Gracie.

The Hurricanes climbed steeply, gaining height at more than 2,000 feet per minute, and the voice of Wing Commander John Cherry, North Weald Controller, filled their earphones, calling ‘Jumbo’ Gracie: ‘Hullo, Yorker Blue Leader, Lumba Calling. Seventy-plus bandits approaching Charlie Three, angels one-five.’ Then Gracie’s high-pitched voice acknowledged: ‘Hullo, Lumba, Yorker Blue Leader answering. Your message received and understood. Over.’ One of the squadron’s pilots chipped in: lack of oil pressure was sending him home. Again Gracie acknowledged, and now ten Hurricanes swept on to intercept seventy German aircraft. Page thought idly, odds of seven to one — no better nor worse than usual. As they followed the serrated coastline of north Kent his altimeter showed 10,000 feet.

Suddenly, what looked like a swarm of midges was dancing in the top half of his bullet-proof windscreen. But Page, craning closer, knew better. They were several thousand feet higher than the Hurricanes, and more deadly than any insect — thirty Dornier 215 bombers escorted by forty Messerschmitt 109s. He heard ‘Jumbo’ Gracie call, ‘Echelon starboard — go’, and saw Constable-Maxwell’s Hurricane slide beneath Gracie’s. Cheerfully Page thumbed his nose at Constable-Maxwell, then took up position slightly to the right and astern. Habit prompted him to lock his sliding hood in the open position — for a hurried exit, if need be.

The Dorniers turned north, setting course over the sea, but the Hurricanes were gaining on them banking, in pursuit; minute by minute, the distance between the fighters and the slim pencil-shaped bombers was closing. To Geoffrey Page, it was suddenly like an express overhauling a freight train: there was time for bomber and fighter pilots to exchange silent glances as the Hurricanes forged on for the bomber leader. Swiftly, Page glanced behind and aloft, but no— the Me 109s weren’t pouncing yet.

At 600 yards, too far away to register, Page opened fire on one of the leading machines, then abruptly stopped short. One moment there had been clear sky between himself and thirty Dorniers. Now the air was criss-crossed with a fusillade of glinting white tracer-cannon shells converging on the Hurricanes. He saw Gracie’s machine peel from the attack; the distance between Page and the leading bombers was only thirty yards now. Strikes from his machine-gun fire flashed in winking daggers of light from a Dornier’s port engine; it was suddenly a desperate race to destroy before he himself was destroyed.

As a thunderclap explosion tore at his eardrums, Page’s first reaction was: I can’t have been hit. It could happen to other people, but not me. Then all at once fear surged again as an ugly ragged hole gaped in his starboard wing. And then the petrol tank behind the engine, sited on a level with his chest, blew up like a bomb; flames seared through the cockpit like a prairie fire, clawing greedily towards the draught from the open hood. A voice Page barely recognized was screaming in mortal terror: Dear God, save me — save me, dear God.’

Desperately he grappled with the Sutton harness, head reared back from the licking flames, seeing with horror the bare skin of his hands on the control column shrivelling like burnt parchment in the blast furnace of heat. Struggling, he screamed and screamed again. Somehow — he would never know how — he extricated himself from the cockpit, and began falling like a stone, powerless to stop.
Richard Collier Eagle Day - The Battle of Britain Hodder & Stoughton 1966 p45-47

Momentarily, almost as if in a dream, Geoffrey Page could sense that he was falling, his body rolled in the air as if gravity did not exist, he felt a sense of weightlessness, until something from inside was telling him: 'the ripcord...pull the ripcord, pull the rip cord.' Almost, as if in some sort of daze, he fumbled for the ring, but each time his hand made contact, pain shot from his fingers, and a stinging sensation caused the hand to jerk away and he continued his fall. Another attempt, must make another attempt, and as he curled his fingertips round the bright shiny ring it was like a knife cutting into his fingers, but with a deep breath he pulled and suddenly he felt the webbing of the parachute pull tight underneath his armpits and the silk canopy of the chute unfold and form an umbrella above him, as he swayed slowly from side to side. He was in a glide, gracefully falling like an autumn leaf from a tree. 

He could not take grasp of the harness straps of the parachute above him, his hands reeking with pain and feeling as though he was immersing them in something like creamy hot milk, but slowly opening his eyes, he placed his hands before him and for the first time saw blood draining from the exposed flesh of his hands, the skin had been completely burnt away. He instinctively suddenly felt the need to 'throw up' swallowing hard to avoid sickness. Immediately he thought of preparing his landing and how to get rid of the parachute once he hit the water below, if he did not get rid of the chute, it would drag him under within seconds. Funny thing about parachutes, one minute they can be your life saver, the next they can behave like a deranged killer dragging you under with the current of the sea. 

Nothing else mattered, the combat that was taking place high above him was far from his mind, he thought nothing of the days events that had led up to his Hurricane bursting into flames, he could do nothing except hang there, gliding slowly down, his hands and body in agony as the waters below seemed to be coming up to meet him. Eventually, he hit the water feet first, his thin frame breaking the surface like a torpedo in slow motion. He went under, the parachute stopping him from going too far down, and kicking wildly, he rose to the surface, the cords and harness of the parachute wrapped around his body. It was this moment that Geoffrey Page dreaded, the very first moments in the water. His clothing became waterlogged and felt three times as heavy, the weight of his flying boots did not help either. He desperately tried to unbuckle the harness, with blistered and blooded hands, the skin literally burnt away he battled against what seemed almost impossible odds to free himself. 

The parachute was the first thing that he had to get rid of, failure to do so would mean that it would drag him to certain death towards the bottom. He battled with the disc, where the straps over his shoulders and around his waist met in a communion buckle, a simple operation, but with virtually no use in his hands the task became almost an impossibility. Still kicking to keep himself afloat, and wrenching at the disc the best way that he could, he knew that there was only moments left, '....give....give.....release you bloody thing," he was breaking out into tears, the salt water started to sting the raw flesh of his fingers, then suddenly the disc gave way, and he managed to free himself of the harness, his tears of fear gave way to tears of relief.


A BURNING INFERNO - A PILOTS WORST NIGHTMARE 

ALL ALONE IN AN EMPTY SEA

Once he was free of the 'chute', the next task was to inflate his 'Mae West' lifejacket. But another setback, the intense fire in the cockpit of his aircraft has burnt a large hole through the bladder making inflation impossible. He had to make a decision, staying where he was until, or rather if an air-sea rescue craft had been advised and if they were able to spot him in the huge expanse of water, he would have to keep himself buoyant, not an easy task without the aid of his 'Mae West', or he could start to swim towards the shore. This would mean that every stroke would be tearing at his willpower, his hands, now more painful than ever seemed now to be burning all the way up his arms and into his body. 

Now his face was beginning to erupt in pain. Flaking tissue allowed the salt water to enter the exposed flesh, and the strap of his flying helmet, now soaked with sea water, was in a state of contracting and tightening its grip into his chin. The flames and intense heat had literally welded the buckle and the strap together, making removal of the helmet impossible. Geoffrey Page, had now never felt so alone. You could be up there, high in the sky, flying your aircraft with nothing but the clouds for company, but somehow, you don't feel alone. You have a radio, you can communicate, just to hear voices gives one a feeling that they are not far from home. You can see land, and you know that within a few minutes, you will be over solid ground and soon back with your 'mates' laughing and joking, telling stories. But in the sea, you have no communication, the only voices you hear are in your mind, land, if you can see it, might as well be a million miles away. 

Then you start to think, did someone see you fall? did anybody report it? You look to see if one of the squadrons was on patrol, would he see you? You listen, but all you hear is silence, except for the water lapping at your chin. Then Geoffrey Page thought of the silver brandy flask, a present from his mother a while back, he always kept it in his top tunic pocket in case of emergencies, ".....mother, this time you may even have saved my life!!!" the brandy would momentarily give him warmth, and he fumbled the best way that he could to remove it from the tunic pocket. His hands, still bleeding from the raw flesh that was once his fingers groped under the 'Mae West' feeling for the top pocket. He had to slacken the life jacket which by now he regarded as just a piece of useless junk and the slightest touch brought sheer pain throughout his body, but with determination he managed to get the flask free of the pocket holding it between thumb and index finger then using the palms of his hands as a sort of clamp held the flask trying to relieve the  uncontrolled pain that was going through his fingers. 

To remove the screw-top, he continued to clamp the flask between his palms and the only way to remove the top was with his teeth, his head being thrown backwards and forwards like an animal trying to get meat from a bone, and every now and then he would get a fresh grip on the stopper with his teeth and get another short turn. Suddenly the screw-top was off and he spat it out of his mouth into the water, the aroma of the brandy spirit was a joy to the nostrils. For a moment, while concentrating on the flask, he felt himself slowly sinking lower into the water as he had relaxed the kicking motions of his legs, and with great effort from a tired and exhausted body he kicked like mad to keep himself afloat: 

Suddenly the flask slipped between his wet wrists, vanishing forever beneath the water. And then Page wept, as uncontrollably as a child; he knew that everything was against him now; he didn't stand a chance. He was cold and exhausted, the flesh was so swollen about his eyes he could no longer see the sun to steer by. When the black smoke trail from a friendly merchant ship hove into view, Geoffrey Page had resigned himself to die.
Richard Collier Eagle Day - The Battle of Britain Hodder & Stoughton 1966 p65

The merchant ship put out a motor launch which moved towards a totally exhausted Geoffrey Page. It was normal practice for a rescue vessel to circle the downed pilot as he identify himself as British or German, this time it was no different, he almost cried out, fighting back the tears that he was British. The launch took him back to the ship where he was provided with a cabin and his wounds attended to. The Captain of the vessel put out a radio message informing the recipient of his find. 

The crew of the merchantman removed his boots and his waterlogged clothing and wrapped him in blankets, and the Captain had made up a pair of lint type fingerless gloves to be placed on Geoffrey's raw hands. They attended to him the best way that they could, these were seamen, not doctors, but although they could attend to minor ailments, cuts and bruises, just one look at Geoffrey Page and one immediately knew that this was a case for a specialist. The crew had seen burns before, usually where the skin forms tight smooth circles on the body, never had they seen the skin flake away like peel from an orange. 

With the Captains message received, the Margate lifeboat, came out to meet the merchant ship and Geoffrey page was taken to the seaside port where an ambulance was waiting. "My face," he asked, "is there anything wrong with my face." They would not tell him, instead reassuring him that he was going to be alright. "Tell me." he again asked, "what has the fire done to my face?" He asked for a mirror, all he wanted to do was to see his face, he knew it was not going to be a pretty sight, he could feel it, the skin was being pulled tight, he could feel huge puffs of flesh above his eyes, but they would not acknowledge his request, instead they continued to reassure him that he was going to be okay and quickly changed the subject. 

Pilot Officer Geoffrey Page spent a short time at the Margate General Hospital where his wounds were patched up carefully, dressings covered his face and both arms. From here, he was transferred to the Royal Masonic Hospital at Hammersmith to the west of London. It was here, for the first time that the dressings on his arms had been removed, and Geoffrey could see the condition of his arms. From his elbows down to the wrists, his arms were a mass of huge boils and blisters, a cream, obviously to retard any pain and to stop any infection covered his arms. Both his hands and fingers were black, a covering of tannic acid smoothly spread on the raw flesh of his hands and fingers.  

But he had still not seen the results of what the fire had done to his face, he constantly asked as to what condition it was in? is it badly damaged? Why cannot he have a mirror, he begged them, "please let me see myself in a mirror." The more they refused his request for a mirror, the more Geoffrey knew that his face had been badly disfigured, otherwise they would have allowed him a mirror. After a treatment session, after a nurse had left the room, he saw the mirror over the wash basin. "Okay, you miserable bitch, if you won't get me a mirror, I'll look in the bloody mirror if it kills me." 

The mirror over the was basin, was only a couple of yards away from his bed, but trying to get out of the bed was to be a painful experience. His arms reeked with pain as he tried to pull the bedclothes back so that he could swing his legs free of the bed. It was an impossibility, his arms were useless. It took something in the order of five whole minutes just to get his legs away from the cradle that kept the bedclothes away from his injured legs, another five, and somehow he had managed to dislodge the bedclothes that had been tucked under the mattress and he sat on the side of the bed. 

The mirror was a few steps away, but with injured legs, and hands and arms that he could not even use as support, the mirror might as well be down the other end of the corridor. He swayed gingerly as he tried to support himself in the upright position, after so long lying in bed, his injured legs were weak. A step taken, he steadied himself, so far so good. Another step, this time the other leg did not want to cooperate, but he dragged it forwards, and it almost buckled under him. It was almost another five minutes before he managed to heave himself towards the was basin, bending over and resting heavily on his elbows on the basin, exhausted and breathless at the two yard sprint !!! He lifted himself upright very slowly, as best as his aching back would allow, until his face slowly came into view in the mirror. He looked, almost horrified, it was all that he had expected although he saw little. His face was nothing but a swollen mass covered in the thick black substance he knew as tannic acid. The only reason that would be there was the same reason as it was on his hands.......no skin, just blood red raw flesh covered by this thick black stuff.  

The door opened, and over his shoulder the nurse appeared, Geoffrey Page could take the hurt and pain no longer, he had achieved his goal, he had managed the few yards to the wash basin to see what he really didn't want to see, although he knew, deep down, that the face of the original Geoffrey Page had gone. The strength had now been sapped from his body, he fell onto the wash basin and then onto the floor....unconscious.

Pilot Officer Geoffrey Page over many months, was to undergo no less than fifteen major surgical operations regarding the severe burns to his face, arms and hands. During this time, he built up a sense of hatred, the burning desire to get back at those that had caused him such suffering. Towards the end of a two year period of hospitalization, treatment, operations and recuperation, his vow and one and only ambition was to get back into another squadron and shoot down, with the intent to kill one German for every one of the major operations that he had undergone.

It was not until towards the end of 1942, that Geoffrey Page was able to return to military service and he was posted to 132 Squadron as a supernumerary Flight Lieutenant and he volunteered for service in North Africa, but because of his previous injuries, the heat of the desert was to have an adverse effect on the numerous skin grafts and burn scars and he was forced to return to Britain.

Back in the U.K. he was posted to AFDU (Air Force Defence Unit) and was operational again this time flying Mustang 1a fighters. Not forgetting the vow he made to himself while in hospital, he commenced his one man private war over Paris on June 29th 1943 when he shot down two Hs126 aircraft and claimed half share in a Ju88. On July 30th 1943 he was awarded the DFC, but had to return back to East Grinstead hospital for further skin graft operations.

Towards the end of 1943, he was posted to 122 Squadron as a flight commander, but with 132 Squadron being returned from North Africa and flying Spitfire IXb's he was given the position as commander of the squadron in January 1944. On April 29th 1943, while on operations over Deelen airfield in Holland, a Bf110 shot down two of the squadrons Spitfires before Geoffrey Page went in and claimed another, although the German pilot was to survive the incident. It is interesting to note here that the German Bf110 that Page had shot down was flown by Major Hans-Joachim Jabs who Geoffrey Page met after the war and the two became close friends.

On July 7th 1944 he was promoted to Wing Leader of 125 Wing, although towards the end of September he crashed and was again hospitalised for a broken bone in his back. At the same time he added a bar to his DFC, and at the end of the year was awarded the DSO. Now, with most of his operational missions at an end, he did not quite get the fifteen victories he wanted. Since his release from hospital, he managed to claim: two Hs126s (June 29th 1943), half a Ju88 (June 29th 1940), a quarter of a JuW34 (April 26th 1944), one Bf110 (April 29th), two FW190s (June 23rd and July 14th), three FW190s damaged (June 18th, July 7th and July 14th), half an FW190 (July 1st), three Bf109Gs (July 7th, July 20th and September 26th) and half a Bf109G (July 12th). In all, a grand total of ten aircraft destroyed, five aircraft shared destroyed and three damaged.

Wing Commander Alan Geoffrey Page was later to tour the USA on lecture tours and on returning to England again for more surgery. He became a test pilot for Vickers Armstrong, and also became personal assistant to the Senior RAF officer at the UN Military Staff Commission in New York until retiring from the Royal Air Force in 1948. A prominent member of the Battle of Britain Fighter Pilots Association and was a moving force in the creation of the Battle of Britain Memorial between Dover and Folkestone.

The story of Geoffrey Page is one of many to come out of the Battle of Britain. For those of you who wish to read the Geoffrey Page story, it is recommended that you read his autobiography Tale of a Guinea Pig published in 1981 by Pelham Books. 


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