STILSON'S LEAP (from a book of which the title I lost)

On a grey day in late November 1941, a squadron of Spitfires was flying back towards Britain across the English Channel. The sky was low, with few breaks in the clouds. They had just broken up a formation of enemy bombers and, while most pilots were now low on fuel, all would make it back safely to the base if luck held.
Then flames leaped out from beneath the cowling of the commanding officer's plane, and thick, black smoke spewed from his exhausts. The whirling propeller slowed, then froze, and his aircraft, trailing smoke, began hurtling down towards the sea.
The cockpit canopy slid back, and the commanding officer tumbled out. His parachute opened. The others watched him drift down through the wind and silence towards the ocean, which splashed and foamed below.
Dropping lower, they saw him hit the sea, then, supported by his life-vest, rise up and swim away from the entangling parachute lines. He waved them off, but awkwardly, as if he were injured. Despite his signal, they circled over him until their fuel was dangerously low. They would wait for his life raft to bob up to the surface before they left him.
But the raft never surfaced. A shard of metal had torn it, perhaps - or a bullet had pierced it, or the flames had destroyed it. No matter. Without a life raft he could never survive in those cold waters.
The other pilots radioed his position over and over, though several were flying with almost dry tanks.
The new acting squadron leader knew there was nothing more they could do. It was his job to bring the squadron home. Cursing the foul luck that had caught them so close to home, he gave the order for them to continue back to their base.
But a man named Stilson, ignoring all orders to leave, and refusing to acknowledge any radio contact, only gained altitude while still circling over their downed commander. At three thousand feet, Stilson's canopy slid back, the graceful green-and-brown fighter arched over, and Stilson tumbled from the warmth and safety of the cramped little cockpit, falling free.
His parachute blossomed above him, as he floated down towards the foaming sea. The sun broke through the clouds, and a mile away his empty plane ploughed into the waves, kicking up a long plume of rainbow spray, and, settling in the water, sank from sight.
The other pilots saw Stilson float down, strike the choppy, glinting surface of the Channel, sink, then come frothing up into the sunlight. They saw him cut loose from the shroud lines and kick free of the sinking chute. They saw his inflated raft pop up to the surface, saw him pull himself in and paddle over to where the commander was still struggling feebly in the bitterly cold water. They saw him haul the officer into the tiny raft with him. On their next pass - their last - the others saw both men bobbing in the life raft together. Next, the clouds closed in, obscuring all.
The others all made it back safely - just barely. They filled out their reports and waited. No word came. In the morning the sky was peaceful and clear, and they flew over a bright, blue, calm, sparkling sea.

But no trace of either man was ever found.