It quickly became apparent the German Focke-Wulfs had taken a toll on the 14th Squadron. Not only was Lieutenant Tate's Spitfire coughing smoke from a sputtering engine, the man inside was struggling as well. A cloud of concern followed the RAF pilots on their return to Hampton Airfield.
"Steady up, lad," Captain Dawson radioed to Lieutenant Tate in a matter-of-fact tone. "Keep your wings level, and your bearing straight."
"Roger," the injured Lieutenant weakly replied, "wings... level, go... straight."
The rest of the squadron remained silent while Lieutenant Tate's faltering Spitfire strayed in and out of formation, hardly flying level or straight. Captain Dawson shadowed the young pilot, constantly calling out encouragement and correcting his course. When the green fields of Hampton came into view, everyone quietly cheered.
"Andy, take the rest of the lads in," Dawson ordered. "Land, and then clear the field. I'll stay with Tate and make sure he remembers to lower his landing gear."
Captain Simms nervously chuckled at Dawson's attempt to lighten the tense situation. As second in command, he understood the danger of bringing in a damaged plane or an injured pilot. A failed landing could be disastrous for the pilot and the airfield. The best course of action was to safely land everyone else first. Straight away, Simms led the rest of the squadron ahead to land at Hampton.
When the two remaining Spitfires finally neared the airfield, Captain Dawson checked to make sure the runway was clear of the other planes. Tate's concussion blurred his vision, leaving him entirely disoriented. Thanks to Dawson, he had somehow managed to fly back to Hampton. But, landing the lumbering Spitfire in his condition would prove to be an even greater challenge.
"Tate, are you ready to head in?" Captain Dawson asked. "Looks like they've cleared the runway down there."
"Uhh..., yeah... sure, I'm ready," Tate mumbled in response.
Dawson and Tate were short of time, their Spitfires were practically empty of fuel. Anxious to land before the situation worsened, the Squadron Leader barked into his radio to get Tate's attention.
"Tate, look sharp! Line up on my wing. We're going to land."
Captain Dawson's terse command made Lieutenant Tate brace in his seat. Side by side, the two Spitfires descended toward the mouth of the grassy runway. As they neared earth, Dawson continued talking his pilot in.
"Landing gear down," Dawson called.
"Roger," Tate replied, "gear down."
"Full flaps and throttle back," Dawson continued.
"Flaps," mumbled the drowsy pilot, "and throttle back."
Captain Dawson's head swiveled back and forth, trying to watch Tate and land his own plane at the same time. As they edged closer to the field, a crosswind caught the Spitfires. Tate's wings started to tip and the nose plunged forward.
"Watch your horizon," Dawson sternly warned.
Tate had barely leveled his wings when the tires of his plane slammed into the turf. Constantly by his side, Captain Dawson's wheels gently settled in the grass at about the same time.
Lieutenant Tate's smoking Spitfire bounced down the field. Just then, his battered fighter veered right. The sudden change of path forced Dawson to quickly correct in order to avoid a fiery collision with the plane cutting in front of him. Dawson cleared out of the way, and Tate rolled to a stop at the end of the field.
Emergency vehicles sped to the crippled Spitfire. Instantly, a swarm of medics scrambled onto the wing of Tate's plane. Captain Dawson wanted to help, but could only watch while they quickly pulled the wounded Lieutenant from his cockpit. Moments later, an ambulance raced Tate off to the field hospital. Dawson knew his pilot was in good hands and joined the rest of the men gathered on the hardstand.
It didn't take long before the chatter between pilots reached a frenzy. Their encounter with the German Focke-Wulf 190s and near collision of the two Spitfires would soon become airfield folklore. As the tall tales grew taller, the men could be overheard preaching the need for better airplanes and more experienced pilots.
Captain Dawson briefly glanced over his shoulder and noticed Harry Winslow standing in his familiar place on the other side of the hedgerow fence. The look in Harry's eyes told it all, he witnessed everything. Dawson waved at his young friend, assuring him things were all right.
Redirecting his attention back to his men, Dawson called, "Come on lads, off to the Briefing Room. Headquarters will want to know all we can tell them about those Focke-Wulf fighters."