I had the throttle open and I rolled over and headed on a course to cut the angle toward the 109s, which had separated a little. I wound on nose-heavy trim so essential to keep the aircraft in a high-speed dive. The Spit responded eagerly as I dove more steeply than the 109s, with Red Two and Three no doubt following, although I could not see them. I could see that I was gaining on the nearest Bf 109. That was something new. We were already half-way to Sicily; that was no problem. We knew from years of experience that the 109 with its slim thirty-two foot wing was initially faster in a dive than we were.

We were down to 5,000 feet and our dive had become quite shallow. I could see the Sicilian coast a few miles ahead. Now I was within range at 300 yards, and I let him have a good squirt. The first strikes were on the port radiator from which white smoke poured, indicating a glycol coolant leak. I knew I had him before the engine broke out in heavy black smoke. At that moment a burst of tracer fire went over my starboard wing, quite close to the fuselage. I had lost the third Bf 109, presuming it was way ahead. "Must be behind me," I thought, as I skidded hard to port, then broke around. But there was no 109, only two Spitfires coming toward me. I thought the nearest inexperienced pilot mistook me for the 109. It happened not infrequently, but he was a bit out of range and he missed, and I forgot about it at once in the same way that one forgets about flak that sails harmlessly by the wingtip.