May 29, 1940
"So, Joachim, is this your real name?" "Joaquim..." "Joaquim?" "Yes. Joaquim Ferreira." "So you are a Portuguese citizen?" "Yes." "Not a Polish?" "No." "So why this story about being a Polish?" "A draft RAF sergeant decided my nationality." "Really? Why?" "I don't know, Kyte... Probably..." Don't call me Kyte, call me David." "David Kyte?" "David John Kyte." "Okay David. I guess that me being Portuguese made that Sergeant nervous - Portugal being pro-German these days and all that." "I see. And with so many Polish pilots coming to the country..." "Yes. That must have weighted on his decision. I don't mind. I've been in Poland fighting." "And also in Spain, you said?" "Yes. That was the first time." "How did you end up there, old boy?" "I arrived there the 23rd February 1937. I was piloting a transport plane with weapons and explosives to help the Republicans. Do you want to see a photography?" "Oh yes! Indeed I want to." "Here..."
"So much dust!" "Well. Yes. I've never ate so much dust as in Spain." "And then you decided to stay there fighting?" "I've crashed landed the DC-3 and for some reason it didn't exploded..." "Not a good pilot at the time, eh?!" "Aaaah... Right. I had two CR-32's trying to blown me out of the skies. Having crashed landed was in itself a victory." "You have to tell me that story in detail." "Sure. But there's little to tell... The DC-3 became unserviceable. A British fighter pilot offered me a position in their International Squadron piloting a Polikarpov I-16. I accepted. There I met... The sirens!!" "Right! Let's go, Franciszek! We've got work to do."
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