The Flight Commander 03

…... and no doubt he was looking over the side watching his tracer bullets go into it when a bullet hit him in the head, so he died with the sparkle in his eyes, engine roaring, guns spurting flame in glorious action. Had he been told his time must come, he would have asked for nothing better than to die like this.


Jordan would be rightly described as a scientific fighter; he combined dash and courage with sound common sense; his heart was in the right place, but he never allowed it to overrule his head. He realised, as others before him, that a Flight Commander’s duty was (1) to get into active touch with the enemy to their detriment and (2) to preserve the lives of the pilots under his leadership. Such statement may call forth the remark that I am labouring the obvious, but if so I beg to differ, and for this reason – by weighing the pros and cons of a prospective fight before engaging the enemy, lives were sometimes retained which might otherwise have been lost. It was my privilege to instruct this officer in aerial fighting, and for many months he flew with me as my right hand man, learning my methods, gaining confidence and shooting down the enemy until he was appointed to lead the flight in which he was fledged and “blooded.” Rather a silent man, but with a charm all his own. No one ever knew why Jordan, when in a jovial post-prandial mood, imagined he was captain of a ship and insisted on walking the quarter-deck. So harmless a pastime could cause no offence if the room were clear, but it seldom was, and woe betide those who got in his path, for he simply walked straight through them. On these occasions he wore his hat at the “Beatty” angle, a set expression on his fine ascetic face, and his hands behind his back - truly a man of character even when enjoying “superelevation.” He was spared during hostilities but met a tragic end in a motor accident after the war. On those who knew him well he left his mark. A man of exceptional charm, although reserved, he gave his friendship to few, but those of us who had it valued it highly.


Talking of reserve turns my mind at once to Booker, a man who said remarkably little but who did much; he was a tiger for fighting - nor was this spirit directed only against the enemy – for he fought for his own men to get what he wanted for them. I remember on one occasion he thought I had got an extra aeroplane which he should have had, and the amount of energy he put into the verbal fight would have surprised even the Socialist back benchers: personally, I admired him for it, he knew what he wanted and he just went out to get it. Jealously he guarded the rights of his men,

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