Extract from an address given by son in law Joe at Witt’s funeral on 8^th May 2009:

Everything for Witt was either a “box of birds” or a “ball of fire” - and quite often both at the same time, although he never explained how the birds would cope with such high temperatures! Had he ever been asked, he would probably have said they were phoenixes, birds rising from the ashes.

Which is what Witt did after his 150 mph crash in an American-built Mustang aeroplane - as he always pointed out, as a result of poor manufacture of the flap mechanism. “God-damn Yanks” he used to say or, sometimes rather more succinctly, the “Goddams”.  He was really badly damaged in that horrendous crash, but fought through his injuries. Witt always loved to make digs at the Americans, and he especially liked to recount that his Spitfire in Burma was always under more threat from friendly fire by the Yanks than from the Japs.

Politically correct he never was.  Most people were erks - an erk being pretty much anyone who wasn't a Spitfire pilot or a particularly distinguished individual - and of course, Witt was both of these.  Erks subdivided into “wogs” (on “Air Force left”)  and “noddy men” and “dolly birds” (on "Air Force right"). 

Witt had been a meteorologist at Birmingham University once he stopped flying. His enduring analysis of bad weather was that it was “ugly mate”. This was also used to describe people and circumstances - as in ‘Witt, what do you think of helicopters/Gordon Brown/etc.’ The reply: "ugly mate, full on ugly."

Witt called his book An Evil Boy, a self-addressed reference. He regarded himself as having lived a very happy and lucky life whilst pulling stunts and practical jokes that nearly prevented him from being presented with his RAF wings. He flew his aeroplane so close to his mate's that he dented a wing tip. He was duly made Officer in Charge of Bicycles. 

I can't think of Dad's Army without thinking of Witt: he would always guffaw when you said to him ‘Don't tell him your name Pike’, usually responding with, "stupid boy!" or "the Germans don't like it up 'em".  Or Tommy Cooper's, "not like that, like that".  And what about the New Zealand Haka: "Ka Mate! Ka Mate! Ka Ora", which he'd also break into without warning, staring at you with his devilish grin, his arms waving like demented windmills and often making people jump out of their skins with the shock of it.

He was a very humble man and he had the ability of summing up things in pithy and often humorous one-liners. Ask him about how he decided an aeroplane was a good 'un or not he would say "If it looks right, it flies right".

He referred to his time in Burma during the Second World War as "when I was in the green hell".  He wrote about the few brushes with death that he had.  Flying his Spitfire through huge banks of deadly cumulo-nimbus, he somehow survived and whilst some of his men were lost, other pilots followed his advice to keep straight and level and they followed him home. That was Witt all along really, straight and level.

You could see Witt's enduring loves with a casual glance towards the mantlepiece. There was a picture of his mother, of whom he spoke with tears in his eyes during the last hours of his life. A statue of Winston Churchill, whom he respected above all men...

... and a painting of his darling Spitfire (Mark 9 with retractable tail-wheel, Merlin engine designed by Witt's other hero R J Mitchell).  And on the fire place there's his kukri knife, presented to him in gratitude by the Gurkhas. He deeply respected the Gurkhas and would always salute whenever you mentioned them. There are lots of cups from his vintage car days. He loved being at the wheel of his faithful Lagonda, completing the Mille Miglia with son Donald and various rallies across New Zealand and the continent.

Amongst the many wartime videos, pride of place was always given to Dame Vera Lynn. He had met her during the war and she has been informed of Witt's death. Her song "We’ll meet again…" always brought tears to his eyes.  She has asked for another copy of his book and has written several lovely letters to the family.

Witt was so dignified as he stumbled along to his former wife Barbara's funeral; he had just had a hip replacement operation and was in considerable pain but he refused to use a wheelchair and I'll never forget how uncomplaining he was as he dragged himself over the wet grass towards the grave.

To the last day of his life he still asked "got a fag?" and the day before he died he was lying in bed, eyeing up a “dolly bird” who was sitting in the sunshine outside his window. Witt couldn't take his eyes of her and it was as if she had been strategically placed for his benefit.

During the last couple of weeks of his life, as his ability to eat and drink failed him, his fingers could no longer grasp, his mouth barely able to enunciate the words he wanted to say, his eyesight diminishing and his body closing down for the final time, he did something that will never leave me. For hour after hour, day and night, he held out his right hand just as if he was holding onto the joystick of his Spitfire - talking about the manoeuvres he was performing and the enemies he was facing.

The last thing Witt said to me was "We are looking towards the past and the past is looking back at us."  Well, here's looking at you Witt. Your old body might have eventually failed you, but your courage and dignity never did.

Flying the Spitfire in death just as he had in life