Fatal and I took off from Shoreham and met our group a klick or three offshore from Ford. We took perch around 2k feet above our bomber boys and kept eyes on the skies as we crossed the channel.
At Dieppe, Fatal adjusted the mission parameters. Rather than turn back to Wilmington, we were to follow our boys to the target.

This we did. Target was bombed and we turned back.

Fatal and I were both on reserves at this point. By the time we made it to the French coastline, I had 14 gallons remaining in reserve to Fatal's 18 gallons. The four gallons I used up trying to keep pace with Fatal's superb flying. The man just doesn't have any slop. Fortunately, right there at feet wet, another group of friendlies showed up to escort the bombers so we both throttled back into drastic fuel saving mode and made for Wilmington. We cruised slowly across the channel at roughly 18k.

At long last, I could make out the white cliffs at Beachyhead. With three or four gallons in the tank and Wilmington Field peeking around the point, I thought I was good to go. I was wrong. Wilmington was -right- -effing- -there- but it turned out Wilmington Field was -under- -effing- -attack-. We diverted to Shoreham. Fatal and his extra four gallons scouted ahead.

At 12 thousand feet and 1/2 gallon fuel remaining, Shoreham Field finally just came into view. messy cluster of contacts buzzed about 6k somewhere near the field, which Fatal reported as HE-111s? engaged by friendlies. Seriously??? Shoreham too??? Having exactly zero choices remaining, I took a deep breath, cut engines and descended.

Upon entering final, a single damaged Henkel flying above the runway around angels three was surrounded by puffs of Bofor flak. Streams of Zwellie tracers squirted up around me. The AA did their job. The field would gratefully turn out to have no apparent damage from the German assault. I turned the engine back on for safety and landed at the runway's threshold as gently as a Spitfire can. Pulled off the runway with about 1/3 gallon in the tank and twice as much sweat pooled in the seat.

Final result:
Bombers escorted.
Targets bombed.
No enemy engaged at any point.
Truly Bingo Fuel.