Below his nose was a small white feather on the water, the V—wake of a tiny fisherman. He dived towards it, converting height to speed raced across the staring faces at a thousand feet then hauled back, converting speed to height, pulled the ejector—seat handle and blew out straight through the canopy.
Messrs Martin-Baker knew their stuff. The seat took him up and away from the dying bomber. A pressure-operated trigger tumbled him out of the steel seat which fell harmlessly to the water, and left him dangling ¡n the warm sunshine under his parachute. Minutes later he was being hauled, coughing and spluttering, onto the aft deck of a Bertram Moppie.
Frederick Forsyth, The Cobra