Civilisation

The Men Who Saved Civilisation How "Cobber" Kain Died :: And Other Stories

r-DAY, Britain is strong and fighting

confidently through to victory, and

130,000,000 hitherto aloof Americans are coming gladly to our aid, and a dozen little nations, now under Hitler’s heel, are daring to hone for the restoration of their liberties —all because, in the latter half of 1940, Britain repelled the Huns, and would not surrender. How did non

military Britain survive, while France,

reputedly owning “the World’s finest army”, was smashed?

The answer is, “the RAF”. As Mr.

Churchill said: “Never did so many owe so much to so few”. The achievements of Britain’s airmen, between April and September, 1940, go on record among the finest things in the history of our race.

They saved us from the Hun.

It is an epic story—and practically

nothing of it has yet been told. But here, just to hand, is the outstanding book of the war, up to date —“Fighter Squadrons”, by Noel Monks, published out here by

Angus and Robertson Ltd., Sydney, at

it gives the war correspondent’s account of what he saw of the RAF in Prance, up to the Dunkirk evacuation.

It is an intimate, personal story of the young British men whose heroism and sacrifice saved their country from Nazi slavery, and of “the miracle machine” which they operated, the Hawker Hurri cane fighter. It is a book that makes one’s blood tingle, and gives one renewed con fidence in the future of one's race. Here is one story, out of dozens in this remark able book (which, incidentally, is certain to be a “best-seller”) It is Friday, June 7, 1940. On a dusty emergency aerodrome near Blois, in France, a two-seater Magister communication plane is being loaded up with kit by an orderly. A tin helmet and a gas-mask complete the loading, and the orderly reports to a group of young pilots wearing the uniform of the Royal Air Force, chatting gaily a few yards away:— “Gear aboard. Good luck, sir.”

A tall, broad-shouldered, black-haired flying offlcer, with the ribbon of the Distinguished Fly ing Cross newly sewn below his wings, leaves the group and walks to the waiting plane. He calls, “Cheerio, chaps! Be good”, to his colleagues and climbs into the cockpit, settles himself, gives a mechanic the thumbs-up. The engine roars.

Suddenly a mischievous grin spreads over the face of the young giant in the Magister. On the port side of him he has caught sight of a Hurricane fighter. It is his old ship. Only yesterday at 20,000 feet, over Rheims, he had “squeezed the teat” that controlled its eight machine-guns, and down went his twenty-fifth “Nazi”.

So he uncurls his long legs from the cockpit of the Magister and, going across to the Hurri cane, wedges himself into the cockpit.

“One more beat-up, me lads,” he calls, and he is off across the aerodrome in a cloud of hot dust.

The Magister’s engine is left ticking over nicely.

With a roar like a thunderclap, the Hurricane comes back over the ’drome, above the heads of the little group of officers —only just above their heads, because it is barely twenty feet off the ground, is upside down, and travelling at 360 miles an hour. The boys call this a “beat-up”.

Still upside down, the Hurricane shoots up to 1,500 feet in less than a minute, turns right side up, then starts a series of rolls earth ward.

That is just how the young man In the Hurricane is feeling, rolling about in the thin air. The little Magister below, with its engine ticking over nicely, is going to take him home to England for special duties.

Two rolls are completed. The group of RAF officers suddenly stop laughing and chattering.

One says anxiously, “What the hell?” as the Hurricane goes into a third roll, which his ex perienced eye can see will bring it mighty close to mother earth.

Then three or four of them yell “Cobber,

Cobber”, and start running. There is a crash.

The Hurricane does not quite complete the third roll. The port wing touches the ground. . . .

While the young officers are lifting their dead comrade from the wreckage, a mechanic climbs into the cockpit of the Magister and switches off the engine. * * ♦ That is how Flying-Officer E. J. (“Cobber”) Kain, 73 (Fighter) Squadron, Royal Air Force, died. He was the first Ace in the war against Nazidom.