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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/193/30990/BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1-01.1.pdf
8262794404d2ef0dfee19a3f5bd97a8e
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/193/30990/BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1-02.2.pdf
7e6e96679a1915a0c9b98fb636e9cf11
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Title
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Yeoman, Harold
Harold Yeoman
Harold T Yeoman
H T Yeoman
Description
An account of the resource
31 items. Collection concerns Harold Yeoman (b. 1921 1059846 and 104405 Royal Air Force). He flew operations as a pilot with 12 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, a memoir, pilot's flying log book, 26 poems, a photograph and details of trail of Malayan collaborator.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Christopher E. Potts and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2016-10-28
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This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
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Yeoman, HT
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
Start of transcription
[underlined] LOOSE ON THE WIND [/underlined]
Harold Yeoman
[page break]
To those who never came back.
[page break]
Their voices, dying as they fly,
Loose on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows’ and my own.
A.E. Houseman,
“A Shropshire Lad”, XXXVIII.
“And how can a life be loved that hath so may embitterments, [sic] and is subject to so many calamities and miseries? How too can it be called a life, that begetteth [sic] so many deaths and plagues?”
Thomas a Kempis,
“The Imitation of Christ”.
[page break]
[underlined] LOOSE ON THE WIND [/underlined]
Author’s foreword
Never no more
We would never fly like that
Lennie
It makes you think
‘Yes, my darling daughter’
Crewing-up
Images of mortality
Tony
Mind you don’t scratch the paint
Rabbie
Letter home
Low-level
A boxful of broken china
The end of Harry
Silver spoon boy
Intermezzo
Overshoot
First solo
The pepper pot
Approach and landing
Knight’s move
A different kind of love
Sun on a chequered tea-cosy
Photograph in a book
Glossary
[page break]
[underlined] AUTHOR’S FOREWORD [/underlined]
During the years of the Second World War, some 90,000 men, from the British Isles, from the great Dominions overseas and from the countries of Europe overrun by the German enemy, volunteered as aircrew in Bomber Command of the Royal Air Force. Of these men, over 55,000 were to lose their lives and, to this day, more than 20,000 of that total have no known graves. In one particular operation there were more Bomber Command aircrew killed than there were casualties during the entire Battle of Britain.
There were many men whose names will bear for ever an aura of unfading brilliance, men such as Leonard Cheshire, (whom for a brief time I was privileged to know) such as Guy Gibson, or John Searby. There were also the thousands who could not aspire to the greatness of those remarkable men, to their almost unbelievable heights of courage and achievement. To attempt to assess what we in Bomber Command did achieve is no part of my aim. Much greater minds and more highly skilled pens than mine have already done this. This small piece of writing is solely an attempt, through the window of personal recollection, to tell of a few of the incidents which affected me and of a few of the splendid young men whom I was fortunate enough to know and to call my friends. Many, all too many of them, alas, gave their lives as part of the price of our freedom, the freedom from an unspeakable tyranny, that freedom which we now so casually enjoy and take so easily for granted. If, in this small book, I have planted their names like seeds in the garden of future years for even a few eyes other than my own to read, for a few other minds to remember, then I shall have done what I set out to do.
An eminent air historian has recently quoted some words which I wrote to him, words which I now venture to repeat. I said, “We simply had our jobs to do and we tried to do them as best we could.” I believe that sums it up.
Harold Yeoman
November 1994
[page break]
[inserted] [underlined] Never no more [/underlined] [/inserted]
“….. And through the glasse [sic] wyndow [sic]
Shines the sone. [sic]
How should I love, and I so young? …..”
(Anon.)
[page break]
[underlined] NEVER NO MORE [/underlined]
There was something icy cold running down my face and a brilliant light was shining into my eyes.
“What on earth?” I heard myself mutter.
I came to rapidly out of a deep sleep and tried to wriggle away from the cold wetness which was finding its way down my pyjama collar, but I could not escape it, nor the blinding glare.
“What’s going on?” I half-shouted, then I saw her hand holding the dripping sponge. Bright sunshine was pouring through my window that winter morning.
A pale, laughing face framed in jet-black hair behind the hand. She was sitting on the side of my bed.
“Betty!” I shouted, “Stop it! What the heck are you doing?”
“Saturday,” she answered brightly, twisting the sponge away from my hand, “Saturday, and it’s your day off. We were going for a walk, do you remember?”
Her dark, lustrous eyes shone with mischief. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my pyjama jacket and shuddered with the cold. I tried to pull the blankets back around me, but she pulled them firmly down again to chest level. What on earth would my parents think, I wondered, a young girl coming into my bedroom – they’d have a fit. It was almost too much for them when I’d insisted on volunteering for aircrew when I was nineteen, but this - !
“I’ve brought you a cup of tea; now hurry up and drink it, ‘cos it’s breakfast time.”
Betty got off the bed, handed me the cup and made for the door.
“Don’t be long now, and if you don’t take me for that walk, I’ll never speak to you again, never no more.”
“What, never, never no more?” I mimicked.
“No, never no more.”
She grinned, but pretended to be in a huff and flounced out, tossing her shiny black hair which gleamed like coal in the morning sunlight. It became a silly, affectionate catch-phrase between us.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
We had arrived at the Knight’s home at almost the same time; Betty from Coventry, after the air-raid, I from Initial Training Wing, to start my flying training at Sywell, a few miles from the centre of Northampton. We had seen the bombing from a safe distance, out of the train windows, on the way up from our I.T.W. at Torquay overnight. We had stopped, miles from anywhere, for hours, it seemed, while the raid progressed. We could hear the Jerries droning overhead and saw the fire on the horizon.
“Someone’s getting a hell of a pasting,” we had said.
Betty, then, was a refugee. Near misses from H.E.s had decided her parents to evacuate her from the shattered and blazing city to the safer home of her aunt and uncle; the R.A.F. billeting authorities had decided to send me to the Knights at the same time. So we quickly became friends; we were both of an age and of similar dispositions, light-hearted, fun-loving, undemanding and contented by nature. Two of a kind, I thought.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
We walked in Abington Park. It was brilliantly sunny but bitterly cold, a wonderful December day. There was snow on the ground, the bare trees were black and stark against the clear winter sky. With my white u/t pilot’s flash in the front of my forage cap I swaggered a little. Why not? I was very proud of it. My buttons gleamed, my boots shone like glass.
“Bags of swank!” our drill Corporal used to shout at us as we marched through Torquay, and we obeyed that command, always. I was proud of myself and I was proud to be walking out with Betty. She was a lovely girl, her face in repose calm and radiant as some Italian Renaissance Madonna in a painting.
“No, I haven’t gone solo yet,” I was saying as we walked, “but I’ve only done nine hours up to now, you know”
“How long will it take you, do you think?”
“Oh, any minute now, but my instructor puts me off a bit, he is rather bad-tempered.”
(‘Can you see that other aircraft?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well then, are you going to fly round it or through it?’)
“That’s not very nice, is it?”
“No, not very, but I try not to let him put me off.”
[page break]
“Will you be getting any leave at Christmas?”
“Don’t suppose so, Betty; I mean to say, I’ve only been in three months altogether and we did get a 48 hour pass from Torquay, you know.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Knights had a radiogram in the lounge of their comfortable semi-detached house.
“Look what I got for Christmas,” Betty exclaimed, holding out a blue-labelled record in its cardboard envelop, “would you like to hear it?”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Hutch.”
I had little or no idea who or what Hutch was, then.
“Yes, please,” I said.
She put the record on and straightened up, standing before me in her simple, grey dress. The creamy, brown voice came out of the loudspeaker and I was immediately seized by some emotion which I had never before experienced.
“That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air,” sang Hutch, and Betty was humming the tune along with him.
“There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”
To this day, when I play that on my hi-fi and hear Hutch’s lovely velvet voice and perfect diction, I am back with Betty at Mrs. Knight’s, falling beautifully and adolescently in love with her from the exact moment that she played me that song. I find it, still, an unbearably moving experience, one which brings a lump into my throat and tears to my eyes.
“Did you like that? Do you want to hear the other side?”
“Oh, yes, please, I’d like to.”
On the other side was “All the things you are,” and it couldn’t have fitted my mood better, either. She was all the things which Hutch was singing about.
“That’s a wizard record, Betty,” I said. She smiled happily.
. . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
“Gosh, I’ve never had champagne before, Mr. Knight,” I said.
“Well, you went solo on Christmas Eve, when we were away and now you’ve done your first solo cross-country today, so you can try some, to celebrate, apart from the fact that it’s New Year’s Day, of course.”
“Well, thanks very much, and – cheers!”
“Cheers,” from Mr. Knight, “and happy landings.”
“Chocks away,” Betty said. Now where had she learned that?
“Would you like to hear another new record?”
“Oh, yes, I would, very much. What is it?”
“’You’d be so nice to come home to’, it’s called,” she said, “do you know it?”
“No, I’ve never heard that one.”
She put the record on and I listened as I sipped the unfamiliar but strangely disappointing wine. I thought, “Yes, you would be so nice to come home to, Betty darling.” Maybe it was the wine after all.
But I really didn’t know how to say that sort of thing to her. How did one start? Besides, my mind was still full of the voice of Flying Officer Lines from earlier that wonderful day.
“You don’t need me, do you? I am going to have a sleep. Wake me up if anything goes wrong.”
And pulling out his speaking tube he had wriggled down into the front cockpit, out of the slipstream, that New Year’s morning, as I set course, droning over snowy Sywell in the bitterly cold sunshine. He was a Battle of Britain Hurricane pilot, instructing for a so-called rest, and trusting me, with only thirty hours in my log-book, to fly from Sywell to unknown Cambridge, land, and come back again. If you did the trip without assistance from your instructor it counted as solo time, and I had done that. My cup of happiness was full, that day.
“You’d be paradise to come home to and love”, went the song as the record ended.
I sighed.
“Yes, she would be,” I thought, “but how on earth do you go about actually saying things like that to Betty?”
There were all manner of things I undoubtedly wanted to say to
[page break]
her. But I hadn’t even kissed her yet, and you couldn’t say some things without kissing somebody first, could you? Besides, she might not want me to. So how, and when, did, or could, one start? It was very difficult, rather like trying to do a perfect three-point landing.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Every other Friday we were paid. I was rich beyond my wildest imaginings. From the two shillings a day at Torquay I had progressed to no less than five pounds four shillings each fortnight. That was as a mere Leading Aircraftman. What I would be paid if ever I became a Sergeant pilot the imagination simply couldn’t tell me. I used to split the money carefully into equal parts and with one half burning a hole in my pocket and the Friday evening feeling joyously pervading my system my little world was at my feet until Monday morning. I would go into Northampton, to the “Black Boy” in the main square, for a mixed grill and a pint of black-and-tan, sometimes with Len or Eric, sometimes alone. It became the high point of my week.
We would sit and talk flying to our hearts’ content, comparing notes on our experiences. In retrospect how limited they were and how naive we were, and yet how miraculous and other-worldly it seemed to me to know the unutterable thrill of open-cockpit flying in the freezing winter air, strapped tightly into the fragile machine whose engine purred bravely in front of me; the wonder of the view of the blue-green and white hazy landscape spread out below, the icy slipstream on my numbed face, the thrill of the response, under my hands and feet, of the aircraft to small, smooth movements of the controls. There was the magic of the rising, tilting and falling of the snow-covered, mottled, dim countryside, blotched with the smoke of towns, the dazzling red disc of the sun as it set in the haze, the ecstasy of sideslipping [sic] in over the hedge and of smoothly straightening out the glide to set her down for a perfect three-pointer on to the frosty grass near the other Tigers, while a few fellow-pupils watched critically, and while over at the Vickers shed the engines of a great black Wellington rumbled ominously.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
“Are you coming down to the Y.M. tonight, Harold?”
My head was down over my books, in the dining room. I wasn’t finding the theory of flight too easy.
“Oh. Yes, I’ll be along; are you going to be there?”
“Well, I work there there [sic] three nights a week now, you know. Auntie thought I should do something to help the war effort until I’m called up.”
(Called up? I hadn’t thought of that; somehow I couldn’t imagine Betty in uniform.)
“O.K., I’ll see you down there later, then, I’ve got just about an hour’s work to do. Keep a chocolate biscuit for me, will you?”
She waggled her fingers, crinkled her nose smilingly, and went out.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I landed for the last time at Sywell in a Tiger Moth, sideslipping [sic] off the height and greasing her down on to the grass. I let the aircraft rumble to a halt, then I taxied carefully to the dispersal tents, faced her into wind and switched off. The prop juddered to a stop. An erk ducked down to chock the wheels. Dusk was beginning to fall; I could see Alex Henshaw, Vickers’ Chief Test Pilot, on the circuit in his Spitfire. Everyone always stopped whatever they were doing to watch him fly, it was part of our education. But my eyes always returned to the huge black bulk of the Wellington by their hangar. I pulled out my harness pin and released the straps carefully, so as not to damage the aircraft’s fabric. I sighed and reluctantly, as one would part from a girl, I climbed out of the cockpit. A chapter had ended.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“I don’t know exactly where, Betty, except that it’s overseas. The lads are all saying Canada, but no-one ever tells us much. I suppose we’ll not know until we get there. There’s a few posted to S.F.T.S.s in England, Hullavington, Cranfield, places like that, but ten of us are definitely on the boat.”
She looked down at her cup of tea. We were sitting together in
[page break]
the Y.M.C.A.; she had an hour off duty. The place was full of uniforms, but I scarcely notice them, I only had eyes for her.
“Will it be soon?”
“Next week, they think.”
“Harold - ?”
“Yes, what?”
“Oh, well, nothing. You will write, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, Betty, yes, I’ll write to you as often as I can.”
“What will you be flying?”
“Harvards or Oxfords, I suppose, I’m not really sure.”
“What do you want to go on to, fighters or bombers?”
(Strange, how civilians thought there were only those two categories of pilot, but I suppose the news the press and radio gave concerned mainly those two. After all, they were the types mostly at the sharp end of things. But I thought of Betty, huddled fearfully in the shelter, that night of the Coventry raid and I felt a sudden and great anger that she should have had to endure that. And I thought of the Wellington over at the Vickers hangar at the aerodrome, sinister, powerful, black, and from then on I was never in any doubt.)
“Bombers,” I said firmly, “definitely bombers.”
. . . . . . . . . . .
It is strange that I don’t remember saying goodbye to Betty, nor to the Knights, if it comes to that. I must have done so, of course, but sadly, I cannot bring the occasions to mind.
I did go to Canada. Once we got out west we worked hard and we flew hard, by day and by night. We got no leave, very little time off. We didn’t particularly want any. Things were getting rather urgent back home. Besides, I wanted to hurry back to Betty, and to my parents, too, of course.
I wrote to her as often as I could. She sent me her photograph, smiling and lovely in that grey dress, but I’m afraid I haven’t got it now. I got my wings a few days before my twentieth birthday. In the late summer, after a stopover in Iceland, I was back in England, and with a couple of Canadian chaps, splendid fellows whom I had
[page break]
met on the boat, I was posted to a Wellington Operational Training Unit at Bassingbourne, not too far from Northampton. Most of my buddies went on to fighters. As it happened, they had a little more future than us bomber boys. Not much, but a little. Of course, I was longing to see Betty again.
As soon as I had settled in I phoned the Knights one evening. It was an interminable business, repeating their number to different operators, waiting while the line buzzed and crackled, while disembodied and unreal voices spoke unintelligibly to one another in hasty, clipped syllables. In the end, a man’s voice spoke up.
“Is that Mr. Knight?”
“Yes, who is that?”
“It’s Harold.”
“Harold! How are you? Where are you speaking from?”
I told him Bassingbourn. We were allowed to do that so long as we didn’t give the name of our unit.
“How’s Mrs. Knight?”
“Oh, she’s fine, she’s down at the Y.M. this evening, on duty.”
“I see. And Betty, is she still with you?”
There was a slight pause. I thought we must have been cut off. Then he said, “No, she went back home a little while ago. Things are a bit quieter now, you know.”
“Yes, I understand. But how is she? I’d love to see her again.”
“Well, actually, Harold, she’s fine. But look, did you know – did she mention that she’s getting engaged?”
I felt as though I’d flown slap into a mountainside in the dark. I swallowed with difficulty, the perspiration had broken out on my forehead and my hand holding the receiver was trembling.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know that.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”
“No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“Yes; he’s quite a nice chap, a bit older than she is, works in a car factory, I believe.”
We didn’t talk long after that; I was too stunned to think very straight. I’m afraid I never saw the Knights again, and I am truly sorry, for they were good, nice people and they were extremely kind to me. I made a mess of my flying during the next few days.
[page break]
I still think about Betty. I have quite a substantial record collection and after years of fruitless searching I finally got the record of Hutch singing what has become for me a poignant song, that song about the nightingale. And when I play it I can see Betty’s lovely face, pale and calm, like the Madonna, and I can visualise the gleam of the firelight on her jet-black hair, that winter afternoon in Northampton.
I wonder, often I wonder, what became of her. Dear Betty, I shall never forget you for you were my first love. What happened? Where did I go wrong? I don’t know why I should feel so very sad when I think of those days, for they were truly among the happiest of my life.
Sometimes, too, I think of the way she used to laugh, and of her words; I can almost hear her voice speaking to me, as though she were in the room here. But I know I shall never see her again and now, the touching little phrase sounds only like a cry of despair in the night – “Never no more, never no more.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
[inserted] [underlined] We would never fly like that. [/underlined] [/inserted]
[page break]
[underlined] WE WOULD NEVER FLY LIKE THAT [/underlined]
After I had described the incident to him, with inevitable, automatic use of a pilot’s illustrative gestures of the hands, he thought briefly about it, then looking directly at me, “You ought to write about it,” he said, “Why don’t you put it on paper?”
The following day I awoke early in the morning, earlier than usual, even for me, with his words still sounding in my ears. And remembering the words with which I had described the events of almost sixty years previously still fresh and vivid in my mind, I took up pencil and paper.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Now, in the dying days of the twentieth century, almost every summer week-end, all over the land, you may buy your ticket for some air display. You may sit in your car with the doors open to admit the pleasant breeze, the warm air, the chatter of the crowd, the over-emphatic loudspeaker announcements, or you may lounge upon your hired camp-chair, your sunglasses shading your eyes as you look upwards into the limitless blue clarity of the sky, and watch, to the accompaniment of the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the hundreds of spectators, the improbable antics of the ugly, purpose-built, monstrously-powered aircraft, meretriciously decorated with advertisements, performing their violent and ugly aerial manoeuvres. To me, the vicious use by their pilots of stick and rudder palls after only a few seconds, and I think, perhaps nostalgically, that I would much rather watch fewer and simpler aerobatics performed by pilots in standard military aircraft. And as I ponder this my thoughts are led back to a day on a Northamptonshire aerodrome when I was beginning my elementary pilot training in the R.A.F.
The time was the sever winter of 1940-41. The Battle of Britain had just been won; Coventry had only very recently been devastated by the Luftwaffe in one catastrophic night raid. I was one of twenty or so young men on our course. Most of us had never seen an aircraft at close quarters until we arrived at No. 6 Elementary Flying Training School. Here, there
[page break]
were Tiger Moths – biplanes, gentlemen’s aeroplanes, as I heard them many times described. They were docile, forgiving, vice-less, sensitive to both hands and feet, a sheer joy to handle once the initial strangeness of the sensation of controlling an aircraft in three dimensions had worn off. Most of us, I fancy, could see ahead no further than going solo on them, then completing the course with the required fifty or so flying hours before we went on to the next stage in our training, a Service Flying Training School. But we did not look far into the future; we did not know nor could we imagine what was coming to us. Perhaps, in many cases, this was just as well. All we knew was that we were, each one of us, filled with an unquenchable desire and zeal to qualify eventually as pilots in the finest Air Force in the world, to become – and we thought this and spoke of it without embarrassment or apology to any man – the elite of all the armed forces, an opinion which I will hold with pride today.
So we flew and we studied flying and talked of little else but the theory and practice of flying. We questioned one another. We pored [sic] over pilots’ notes and airmanship notes and navigation books and the Morse Code. We questioned our instructors and our peers on the senior course. And we kept our eyes and ears open, sensitive and receptive to anything, however small, which would assist us in any way to obtain those wings which we longed to be able to wear on our uniforms.
Here at Sywell, the Tiger Moths were, during the day, dispersed around the perimeter of the grass aerodrome, standing in their training yellow and earth-camouflage paint, their R.A.F. roundels standing out bravely, awaiting their next pupils to take them up on whichever exercise they would carry out. We were divided into three Flights, six or seven of the boys on my course in each, with six or seven of the senior course. Each Flight had its ‘office’ in a camouflage-painted bell tent near the hedge. But what drew my eye almost hypnotically when I was standing there, not flying, perhaps watching other pupils performing their ‘circuits and bumps’ until it was my own turn, was the occasional sight of a Wellington, a twin-engined bomber, at that time the biggest we had, standing outside a hangar on the far side of the aerodrome – the Vickers shed, as it was called. It fascinated me constantly and unfailingly, massive in its matt-black dope with its very tall single rudder, standing squat, silent and menacing outside its hangar, contrasting against the snow-covered ground,
[page break]
never approached by anyone except the Vickers personnel. What was taking place there I have never known, but all of us well knew who flew it.
He would arrive in his Spitfire, considerately keeping a respectable distance outside the circuit while we pupils took off or landed in our tiger Moths. Then he would slip into a vacant place in the circuit and make his approach and landing, his aircraft, pencil-slim, perfect and graceful in its flight, the focus of all eyes from the ground, its appearance possessed of something of the beauty and poetry of a Bach fugue or a Mozart andante, a Shakespearian sonnet of flowing aerial beauty. The pilot, we learned from some of the senior course who were comparatively old hands on the aerodrome, was Alex Henshaw, Vickers’ Chief Test Pilot, a fact which reduced us tyros, with probably less than thirty flying hours in any of our logbooks, to awestricken silence.
He it would be who would take the Wellington from its place at the Vickers shed, taxi it, ponderously, it seemed to us, into take-off position when all Tiger Moths were well clear, and without fuss send it charging with engines howling at full boost over the bumpy grass field and into the air, leaving traces of oily smoke in its wake from the two Pegasus engines as he eased it over the trees fringing the aerodrome and climbed away. Later, he would return to land, once again showing meticulous consideration of us pupils, and would taxy the bomber to its position by the Vickers shed. I would have not believed them had someone told me that less than a year later I would land and take off here in a more powerful Mark of Wellington on the strength of having seen Alex Henshaw’s performances; I am sure that my audience, if indeed I had one, would have been quite unimpressed by the sight. I know that my own crew, in the tense silence as I scraped over the trees on take-off, were wishing themselves anywhere but with me in my inexperienced disregard for their safety. But it was watching Alex Henshaw that first sowed the seed of an idea in my head that, whereas almost all of the chaps on my course wanted to fly fighters, I thought that I would try my utmost to get on to a bomber Squadron, if only to hit back at those who had so terrified Betty, the niece of the couple on whom
[page break]
I was billeted in Northampton, and whom I was beginning to regard as someone more than a friend. A year later I would be wearing my pilot’s wings, having been half way across the world and back to earn them, having joined a Wellington Squadron in Lincolnshire and having survived a fire in the air followed by a barely controllable night descent in the darkness and the final crash-landing on my first operation against the enemy. I would also have gained, then lost, a love.
One afternoon, at Sywell, I was not flying, standing outside the dispersal tent with two or three others of my course, no doubt talking flying, and watching critically the take-offs and landings of a few pupils on circuits and bumps. (How readily I could point out their faults – a slight swing on take-off, a ropey turn, a bumpy landing, or a too-high hold-off; how slow I was to recognise my own failings and correct them, except on the sometimes caustic promptings of Flying Officer J - -, my instructor).
At this stage in our training we could detect instantly any appearance or movement of an aircraft in the sky, no matter how far distant it was – an attribute I have never lost – and we could also quickly and correctly identify it, an ability which, for obvious reasons, was essential by day or by night. But on that bright, very cold afternoon, first there was the distinctive note of the Merlin engine. Our heads turned. Here was the Spitfire with Alex Henshaw, assessing the position of the Tigers on the circuit. He would have been at about 800 feet; I had a splendid view as he cruised gently along, well outside the aerodrome boundary. Then there was a flash of sunlight off the wing as, quite unexpectedly, he rolled the aircraft on to its back and flew, straight and level, but inverted, into wind. We turned our heads and grinned at one another. This was good. This was very good. Exciting stuff. Soon he would roll back and finish his circuit normally. We were wrong. He turned crosswind, still inverted, his rudder pointing grotesquely earthwards. This was becoming quite amazing, an incredible sight. Then, still inverted, he turned again, on to the downwind leg and put his wheels down – or rather, put them up, as we saw them, rising like a snail’s antennae from the duck-egg blue under surface of the Spitfire. Then he turned
[page break]
on to the final crosswind leg, still inverted, undercarriage held high, flaps now out, and finally into wind, on to his landing approach.
Spellbound and speechless we watched as he lost height smoothly in the inverted position. What was he going to do? Open her up and roll her out, then go round again on a normal circuit? But no, he continued on his inverted final approach. I hardly dared breathe; the tension in our small group could be felt. Down and down he slipped until we were prepared to see simply anything – but surely not a crash? I could not truly estimate at what height he was, but finally, effortlessly and smoothly, he rolled her out, the engine popping characteristically as he held off at a few feet and set the Spitfire down for a perfect landing on the grass. We exhaled in unison, the tension gone, wonderment taking over.
I have never seen any piece of flying anywhere to approach the silken, wonderful skill of this, and I would be astonished if anyone else has; it was sheer unadulterated Henshaw genius, a sight that I have always remembered with awe, one I shall never forget.
There is a very fine novel, long since out of print, written by an R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant pilot who was killed in 1940. The action takes place at a civilian flying school; in one particular chapter some pupils are watching an instructor putting an aircraft through its paces on a rigorous test flight and one of them speaks some words which precisely matched my thoughts as I watched that incredible inverted circuit – “We’ll none of us ever fly like that.”
I am sure that none of us standing there on that wartime winter day ever did and I would be astounded if anyone else did, or could. It was flying by a genius; even the gods must have smiled to see it.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Lennie [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LENNIE [/underlined]
In those days, full-backs wore number 1, right wing threequarters threw into lineouts and wore number 2, and so on, down to number 15 at wing forward. Lennie wore number 2 in my local rugby club’s first team, and also in the County side. As an aspiring wing threequarter [sic] myself, although just into my teens, Lennie, when I watched the team’s every home game, wide-eyed on the open side of the exposed pitch, in whatever weather, Lennie became one of my boyhood heroes.
He was not by any means one of your greyhound-type hard-running winger, for he carried, in retrospect, perhaps a pound or two too much weight to be numbered with them. But he was as elusive as a well-greased eel. Although in defence, and in particular, his rather feeble kicking, he was slightly suspect, with ball in hand every spectator, whether at club or County match, unconsciously sat up or stood straighter, in anticipation of his jinking, sidestepping runs up the touchline, soldier-erect, dark head thrown back, mouth slightly open. I wonder how often in his career he heard the encouraging shouts of the crowd, “Come on, Lennie!”
The recollection of a particular incident in one particular match, against the strongest club side in the county still remains vividly with me. In all but the highest grade of rugby, receiving the ball as a wing threequarter [sic] within ten or fifteen yards of one’s own corner flag meant that there was no choice. One kicked for touch, hoping to gain at least twenty or so yards. Especially so when one was pitted against the most efficient and successful team for miles around, and even more so when one was faced by the opposing winger, who in this case was an English international. But on this occasion Lennie eschewed the safe option. Perhaps it was that he himself knew that his kicking was rather weak.
About a hundred yards from his opponent’s line and faced by a rapidly advancing and grimly competent opponent, he set off to run, up the appreciable slope of his home ground. With a jink and a sidestep he evaded the oncoming International, who skidded and was left floundering. Urged on by the home crowd, myself included, he ran, sidestepped, swerved and tricked his way through the opponents’ entire team, his lately evaded marker in breathless and fruitless pursuit. He finally rounded the fullback and scored wide out to the left, after a solo effort of more than 120 yards. It brought the house down, especially as the England ‘cap’
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was finally left prone and exhausted in his wake. I have watched and played rugby for very many years and I honestly believe that I have rarely seen a finer individual try scored.
Came the war. Players and spectators alike of the necessary ages were scattered all over the world, many never again to see or handle a rugby ball. Very early in 1941, my elementary flying training – and Betty – left behind, the latter with some heartache, I and several other LACs from Sywell found ourselves en route for we knew not where to continue our training, gathered like so many shepherdless sheep in midwinter in a large and bleak Nissen hut at RAF Wilmslow, an overseas embarkation depot. There must have been fifty or so of us in the hut, sitting upon our respective beds, while a Corporal at one end lectured us on some topic relevant to our impending departure, then called us forward, alphabetically, of course – I was used to being the last in any roll-call – to hand us some sheet of instructions. Awaiting my turn I watched idly while others hurried forward to the Corporal’s desk, then about-turned and went back to their places. Watched idly, that is, until a name I only half-heard was called, and a well-built dark man trotted, on his toes, up the aisle to the Corporal. I started up with a stifled exclamation, recognising the way he ran. It was Lennie, Lennie C - - of W - - R.F.C. I could scarcely believe my eyes. For a second or two the forage cap with the white flash of u/t aircrew almost deceived me.
As soon as we were left to our own devices I walked along the hut and across to his bed-space.
“Excuse me, but you are Lennie C - -, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
He looked curiously at me.
“I thought so, I’ve often watched you play, at W - -.”
He looked surprised and pleased. I mentioned my cousin, who played in the same team. To meet someone from one’s own home town in the Service was a reasonably infrequent happening, and because of that, all the more welcome. He told me he was under training as a Navigator. We stuck together, despite the disparity in our ages – he was about ten years my senior – through our dismal stay at Wilmslow, then via Gourock and a ridiculously small ship to Iceland where we trans-shipped
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to an armed Merchant Cruiser. This was more of a morale-boosting title than anything else; the ship was a medium-sized passenger cruise vessel with two quite small guns which, at a guess, might have just about managed to sink an empty wooden barrel, but not much else. The news finally filtered down to us that we were heading for Canada. On setting out from Reykjavik we looked around for our convoy. There was none. We were to cross the Atlantic alone, with two paltry guns to defend ourselves against whatever there might be in the way of U-boats, pocket battleships or a combination of both. This was a very real threat. The ‘Bismarck’ was later to sink ‘Hood’ and itself to be sunk in the North Atlantic. We slept and lived, about 150 of us, I suppose, on the floor of what had been the Recreation Room with about twelve inches of so-called bed-space between mattresses. Half way across the Atlantic, in a February storm, the engines packed up and we tossed, helpless, for twenty four hours, a sitting target for the Kriegsmarine. Then at last we heard the welcome rumbling from the bowels of the ship.
An LAC whose bed-space was near to Lennie’s and mine then reported that he felt unwell. Chickenpox was diagnosed, and the M.O., looking for all the world like an S.S. man selecting victims for the concentration camp, ordered that several of us, including Lennie, Brian S - , who had been on my course at Sywell, and myself, were to be sent into quarantine when we arrived in Canada. Brian, as it happened, was also a rugby man, having played for Broughton Park.
We duly and thankfully docked in Halifax, Nova Scotia and after, I’m afraid, gorging ourselves on steaks and chocolate, which we had never seen since before September 1939, about twenty of us, including two or three Fleet Air Arm airmen, to our eyes bizarre in their bell-bottomed trousers and flapping collars, were put on the train for Cape Breton Island, in particular for the small R.C.A.F. Station of North Sydney.
Our quarantine turned out to be farcical. After twenty four hours on the camp we were informed, amazingly, that we could please ourselves where we went and whom we met, until further notice. We looked at one another in astonishment – then proceeded to enjoy ourselves while we could. Our duties, such as they were, consisted of one night duty in six when three of us were left in charge of the kitchen and served meals to the RCAF airmen
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who were on guard duty and fire picquet. The civilian cooks, who had never met anyone from the U.K., ensure that we were fed like fighting cocks, providing us with quantities of steaks, eggs and milk. Out of camp, the streets, cafes and cinemas of North Sydney and of Sydney itself were open to us. Lifts in cars belonging to the local people were there for the asking, and the friendly Nova Scotians, learning of our arrival, took us to their hearts and into their homes. They were astonished that despite the deep snow on the ground, we seldom, if ever, wore our great coats. The cold was so dry compared with that in England, and we were physically in such prime condition that we felt no discomfort, whereas our Canadian hosts went about muffled up in greatcoats and fur hats with ear-flaps. Our stay there was as good as an extended leave.
Off the pitch, most rugby players are determined to do their utmost to ensure that breweries never go out of business. Lennie was no exception. When a group of us were out together he drank his beer slowly but steadily, became more and more relaxed and laughed a good deal, sometimes uncontrollably. He never became objectionable or aggressive, never used bad language and was always amenable to our advice that perhaps he had had sufficient and it was time to return to camp. Being a mere tyro, at the age on [sic] nineteen I drank sparingly and with considerable discretion, my mental sights being fixed over the horizon, on the next stage of my flying training and the eventual gaining of my wings. So I took it upon myself, on several occasions, to steer Lennie, muscular but curiously boneless, laughing at only he knew what, safely into our barrack hut and on to his bed, where I covered him, still in uniform, with his blankets, where he would fall peacefully asleep. Lennie, even with several beers inside him, never did the slightest harm to anyone.
Of course, the idyll had to come to an end. After several very pleasant weeks, our posting came through. Brian and I and some others were destined for Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, No. 32 S.F.T.S., while Lennie was posted to Goodrich, Ontario, a Navigational Training School. I remember how we shook hands when we said ‘cheerio’. His smile was as broad as ever, and his hand, I recall vividly, was large and surprisingly soft.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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It must have been on one of my leaves from Moreton-in-the-Marsh towards the end of 1942 when my father, who was on the committee of the local rugby club, gave me the news. Lennie had been shot down and was missing. He believed that it had happened off the Norwegian coast. It was yet another blow to me following the loss of my own crew. I had recently had a reply from the Commanding Officer of my Squadron in response to a letter I had written him, that my crew must now all be presumed dead. I felt that the bottom had dropped out of my life and I was nearing the end of my tether. I was suffering deeply, as was my flying, and I sensed that my forthcoming Medical Board would be the end of a chapter. I went about cocooned in silent grief so intense that it amounted to permanent depression, which was only temporarily assuaged by drinking far more than I ever saw Lennie drink. From what little my father had gleaned from his informant at the clubhouse I surmised that Lennie must have been on some squadron in Coastal Command. For some reason I visualised him on Whitleys.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Years passed. I will not say that I had forgotten Lennie; occasionally some memory of those days would float unbidden into my mind and I would visualise him as I had last known him on Cape Breton Island, always smiling, playfully light-hearted, completely harmless. Then a friend gave me a cutting from a local newspaper with a photograph of the successful rugby team of the immediate pre-war years. Lennie smiled up at me from the middle of the front row of players, next to another young man who had been shot down into the sea off the Dutch coast as a wireless operator in a Blenheim on a daylight shipping strike. I was impelled to ask the friend whether any information could be obtained from the Internet as to what had happened to Lennie, and when it was he had died. Within days I knew enough to be able to consult a series of volumes of casualties of Bomber Command. For Lennie had not been on a Coastal Command Squadron as I had surmised, and he had not been shot down off Norway.
He was the Navigator of one of six Wellingtons from a Bomber Squadron at Mildenhall, (where much later, J – ended her career in the W.A.A.F. as a Base Watchkeeper), detailed to attack shipping, in daylight, on the Dortmund-Ems Canal in North-west Germany on a September afternoon in 1942.
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On reading this, I could hardly believe that Wellingtons were being used on daylight operations at that time; I had thought that the crippling loses [sic] that they suffered on such attacks in the early days of the war had meant their transfer solely to night bombing. (On my telling M – about these circumstances, she said ‘Suicide raid’. That was about the size of it.) Mr. Chorley’s painstakingly collated and amazingly detailed book gives the bare bones of the tragic story. Four and a half hours after taking off, presumably on their way back to Mildenhall, and within sight of the Dutch coast and the comparative safety of the North Sea, his aircraft was attacked by a Luftwaffe Focke-Wulfe 190, a formidable fighter aircraft. The wireless operator was killed in the attack and the aircraft was set on fire. The two gunners managed to bale out and became prisoners of war. The account says that Lennie was last seen using a fire extinguisher, bravely trying to put out the fire which was raging inside the fuselage of the Wellington.
The blazing aircraft crashed into what was then the Zuider Zee; the bodies of the wireless operator and the pilot were recovered and subsequently interred in a cemetery in Amsterdam, but Lennie’s body was never found and, having no known grave, his name is recorded on the Runnymede Memorial along with twenty thousand others whose remains were never recovered.
So died a hero who for a brief time was my friend.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] It makes you think [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] IT MAKES YOU THINK [/underlined]
“Mail up!”
We jumped off our beds and hurried towards the door at the end of the barrack hut. At least, some of us did. The majority stayed where they were, on their beds, pretending to read, cleaning buttons, pottering about. There could be almost no chance of mail for them, for they were Norwegian, and their homeland was under German occupation. They accepted this lack of mail, as they did much else, with considerable stoicism.
We who were the fortunate ones gathered around the R.C.A.F. airman who called out the names on the envelopes, and who, while looking down at the handful of letters he held, handed us our mail without a glance. There was one for me. I looked at the postmark. Coventry. My heart bounded when I saw that. There was two-thirds of the width of Canada and all the Atlantic Ocean between us; she was back in devastated Coventry, I in smaller and completely peaceful Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, under training as a fighter pilot.
I walked slowly back to my bed, savouring the sight of her handwriting, feeling the texture of the envelope smooth under my fingers. I sat down quietly, as far as one could be quiet in a hut with twenty-nine other blokes. In deference to us, the Norwegian lads did keep quiet as we read our mail. I held the unopened letter a long time in my hand, gazing at her rounded, shapely writing. I wanted this moment of pleasure to last as long as possible.
At the time I was with her, under the same roof, being so caught up in the novelty and the thrill of flying, I didn’t realise what was happening to me, or to her, and it was all too foolishly late that I had become slowly aware of it. After we had parted, when I was at the Embarkation Depot en route for Canada, and when I had time to take stock of myself, it was only then that it dawned slowly upon me that I had fallen in love with her, and that I wouldn’t see her again for the best, or the worst part of six months at least. Oh, Betty, I thought, the time I so stupidly wasted. Would I ever have the chance again?
I sighed, and looked at her photograph on my locker. She was
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smiling at me enigmatically, her mouth curving slightly up at the corners, her dark eyes holding more than a hint of mischief, the gleaming mass of her ebony hair framing the soft pallor of her calm face. Slowly and carefully I opened the envelope. I turned to the last sheet, looked at the end of the letter first, fearful that it might say only “yours sincerely” or some such. It did not. The words were there that I wanted to read. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and luxuriously, and started from the beginning.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Tim spoke up from across the gangway between the beds, his English idiomatic and only very faintly accented.
“I hope she still loves you, but come on, we have flying to do.”
“O.K., Tim, I’ll be right with you.”
I tucked the letter into my top left-hand tunic pocket, carefully buttoning the flap. Soren and Aage, next to Tim, both stood up. What opposites they were, I thought, Soren cheerful, muscular, blond, extrovert, while Aage was gaunt and rather silent, and toothy, with melancholy eyes which flickered nervously around him. We made our way up to the flights; it was going to be another hot day. Already the air was filled with the tearing rasp of the Harvards’ Wasp engines as the fitters ran them up in preparation for a long day’s flying.
We turned into ‘F’ Flight crewroom at the front of one of the hangars and looked at the flying detail pinned up on the board, next to the Coke machine. Aage was due off on a cross-country to Swift Current and back at 0900, while Tim, Soren and I had an hour’s formation flying at 1000. Lower down the list I saw that I was due on the Link Trainer at 1500 for blind-flying simulation, and to round off the day, or rather, the night, one and a half solo night-flying hours at 2100. It was going to be a long day, as well as a hot one. Aage, now bent over a map, pencilling careful lines, was to take over my aircraft, I saw, when I landed after night-flying.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
After the snowy, tree-fringed grass field at Sywell it was a novelty to have these sun-baked runways, even more so when there were two parallel ones with a narrow grass strip in between, the whole field being patterned by this double triangle of concrete strips.
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We took it in turns to lead our formation of three. Station-changing, as we had no R/T, was indicated by hand-signals from the leader. Soren was to lead first with me as his number two and Tim, three. Then I would take over the lead, and finally, Tim. I followed Soren’s bright yellow Harvard out as he taxied on to the perimeter and turned towards the end of the runways in use. He took the right-hand runway of the pair and edged across to the left of it, braked and stopped. I gave him ten yards clearance and took the right-hand edge of the same runway. Tim stopped level with me, alone on the left-hand runway. I saw Soren slide the canopy shut and start rolling, and I followed, pushing the throttle firmly up to the stop. I never got used to the tremendous feeling of exhilaration as the power surged on. I lifted the tail and kept straight with small pushes of my feet on the rudder-bar. As I chased after Soren I could see Tim out of the corner of my eye, keeping abreast of me.
Suddenly Soren was airborne, then I followed, climbing into the summer sky. To maintain station, the rules of tidy and correct flying were suspended. You used no bank on your small turns to get into position, but skidded gently across on rudder only. It felt all wrong, it was like being told deliberately to mis-spell a word one had known and used for years. When I had first practised formation with F/O Sparks in the front cockpit I had been frightened out of my wits to see two other aircraft each within ten yards of me. But one was soon conditioned to accept this, and very quickly one learned the gentle art of close formation flying, when your own wing was actually tucked in to the space between the leader’s wing and his tailplane, so that any forward or backward relative movement meant a collision. But provided you watched him like a hawk, and kept station by means of constant throttle and rudder juggling, you got by. It became great fun, and the early thoughts of comprehensive and devastating collisions were soon forgotten.
So I tucked myself right in on Soren’s starboard side and stayed there while he climbed, turned or glided. We flew four basic formations, vic, echelon starboard, echelon port and line astern. The echelons looked great and the line astern gave you a bit of relaxation, for numbers two and three were slightly lower than the aircraft in front,
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to keep out of the turbulence of his slipstream. Where we were heading was not my worry, nor Tim’s. Soren was in charge of that side of things while he was leading. He gave the signal to change leaders. I skidded away from him and opened the throttle to draw ahead. He skated in to my left and Tim crossed to my right, as number two. Back to cruising revs as they snuggled themselves in tightly against me. I looked down at the baked prairie landscape and saw that Soren had headed us back towards Moose Jaw to make it easy for me. I grinned and mentally thanked him. I started to sing loudly to myself as we flew, running through the repertoire of the popular songs we were always playing on the juke box at Smoky Joe’s cafe, just outside the camp gates, I felt on top of the world – a letter from Betty, a great day for flying and the formation going like a dream. I led them around until my time was up and signalled Tim to take it from there, over Regina Beach on Last Mountain Lake, at four thousand feet.
I slid into number three position in the vic and tucked myself in tightly into Tim’s port side. He led us around in a turn to port, back towards base. We never did steepish turns in vic formation, it was too difficult for the man low down on the inside to keep station as he had to cut his airspeed back so much. Tim tightened the turn and climbed a bit as he did so. Watch it, Tim, I thought. Still tighter; I dared not look at my airspeed. Still tighter, and my controls were starting to feel sloppy, approaching the stall; I dared not throttle back any further or I would stall off the turn and go into a spin, and a Harvard lost nine hundred feet per turn once they did spin. Out of it! I shoved throttle on as I winged over and dived out of the formation, swearing to myself as I did so. The wretch! Playing silly buggers like that!
All on my own in the bright morning sky I screamed round in a steep turn to port, with plenty of power on, nearly blacking myself out in the process. I yanked the seat tighter against the straps to bind my stomach firmly in and keep the blood in my head, stopping the grey-out. I eased out of the turn. Five thousand feet. Now, where the hell were they? Then I saw them, now about six miles away, orbiting innocently. I flew over to them and sat just off
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Tim’s port wingtip, shaking my fist at him, which only made him throw back his head and laugh as he made come-in motions with his hand. I went in, tight. We formed up again into a sedate vic and finished the detail, as usual, in echelon port, about two miles from the field, when we did our line-shoot party piece – a swift wing-over to port in rapid succession and a dive on each other’s tails into the circuit, making sure we were well clear of the more sedate pupils going about their quiet business.
When we had landed, taxied in and switched off, I collared Tim.
“Damn you!” I said, pretending to be about to sling a punch at him, “What the hell do you think you were playing at? Trying to make me spin in, were you?”
“No danger,” he replied, laughing, “you had bags of height – can’t take it, eh?”
Soren chimed in, smiling broadly.
“We thought you’d just decided to go home.”
“Wait till I’m leader, next time, you two mad so-and-so’s,” I said threateningly, “I’ll turn you both inside out!”
All the same, I threw Tim a Sweet Cap; Soren didn’t smoke. We strolled back to ‘F’ Flight crew-room where I’m glad to say that Tim bought the cold Cokes. It was a hot morning.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Link Trainer Sergeant was a stocky little R.C.A.F. man who looked like a middleweight boxer.
“Don’t forget to reset your gyro-compass every ten minutes or so or you’ll be way to hell out at the end. Got your flight card? Do all your turns at Rate two and let’s have a nice neat pattern on my chart at the finish. Give me the O.K. when you’re ready and I’ll tell you when I’m switching on so you can punch the clock.”
“Right oh, Sergeant,” I said.
I climbed into the little dummy aeroplane on its concertina-like base. I pulled over the hood, plugged in the intercom in the darkness and propped up the flight card near the small lamp on the instrument panel. I felt the lurch as he energised the system; the instruments
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came to life with a sigh.
“I’ve put you at a thousand feet,” he said, “do you read that?”
“Check,” I replied, “turning on to 045 Magnetic, now.”
“Got you. Just watch your height as well as your timings, won’t you, bud?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
I was flying the awkward Maltese Cross pattern, the idea being to finish exactly where you started, after the completion of the twelve legs. The instructor had a wheeled “crab” which inked in the line of your track on his chart. At the end, you should have drawn a perfect Maltese Cross, but it took forty minutes, approximately, of solid, grinding concentration on your instruments alone.
“Switching on – now!” came his voice, and I hit the stop-watch.
After what seemed like hours I did my final Rate 2 turn on to my original course. I straightened it up, timed a careful one minute, then called out, “Finish – now!”
He acknowledged and switched me off. The needles sagged to their stops. I took off my headphones and opened the hood and side door.
“O.K.,” the Sergeant said, “come right over here and have a look-see. Not bad at all.”
I went over to his glass-topped table. My pattern was about ten inches across and I had finished about an eighth of an inch from where I had started. It looked pretty damn good to me, and for an instant I thought about Tink’s brother in his Hampden.
“Yes,” I said, feeling rather pleased, “just a bit out, Sergeant.”
He grinned.
“You’re doing O.K., buddy,” he said agreeably, “now how’s about seeing if L.A.C. Briggs is outside, eh?”
“O.K., Sergeant,” I said.
He had just made my day.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I lay back on my bed after the evening meal and read the letter once again. The hut was quiet. Those who weren’t night flying had gone to Smoky Joe’s or into town for an evening meal. The few of
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us on the night flying detail were reading, writing letters or dozing on our beds, waiting for the darkness. There was no sign of either Tim or Soren, while Aage was actually sound asleep.
She wrote, “I miss you here, I miss our walks in the park. I wonder if you will be posted somewhere near when you come back, where we can meet? Do you still want to go on to bombers, like you told me? Will it be very dangerous? Whatever happens, I shall pray for you, as I do now, that God will keep you. I have always said what has to be, will be, but I feel he will keep you safe…..” She went on to say she would be spending some time with her Aunt and Uncle in Northampton, as her parents still felt happier with her over there.
I folded the letter slowly and thought about Betty and the simple, almost idyllic happiness of life in those days six months ago. Tink, on the bed next to me, motioned to me and across at Aage, grinning, imitating his open mouth and his posture, his ungainly sprawl. Tink, the single-minded, I thought, hero-worshipping his brother flying his Hampden over Germany, and who could hardly wait to get on to the same Squadron. A faraway look would come into his eyes when he spoke about it; “When I get on Hampdens,” he would always be saying, and his broad, boyish face would be raised to the sky, “When I get on Hampdens with my brother –“
But looking at Aage had made me feel tired, too. I yawned, then lit a cigarette and grinned at him. Tink was from Coalville in Leicestershire; I wonder often what became of him.
An hour later I was taxying my Harvard out in the darkness, the flarepath away to my right looking very long and very far away. Night flying without a navigator and entirely without radio consisted, at Moose Jaw, of circuits and bumps – and of not getting lost. There was no blackout and you could see the town for miles, no bother at all. But if the visibility went, you got down out of it, quick. So far, it never had; the prairie nights were wonderfully clear.
I got my green from the A.C.P. and, nicely central between the flares, opened her up. We charged down the runway and floated off
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easily. I had done quite a few of these night flying stints before, and found I had taken to it naturally, much more so than I did to aerobatics, for example. Undercart up, throttle back to climbing power, keep the gyro on 0, shut the canopy, and up to 1000 feet. Level off, throttle back to cruising, turn port to 270. There’s the flarepath down over my left shoulder. Keep the wings level, watch the artificial horizon. Rate one turn downwind, heading 180, throttle back a bit, then wheels down when we’re opposite the middle of the flarepath. Greens on the panel as the wheels lock. There’s the A.C.P. giving me a green on the Alldis lamp. Crosswind on to 090. Bit of flap. Drop the nose and turn in. Watch the airspeed, open the canopy. Engine noise surges in. Switch on the landing light and hold her there. Nice approach, I think. Now, hold off and let her sink the last four feet. The flares merge into a line. Hold it there. A bump and a rumble. We’re down.
Keep her straight, flaps up, headlamp off. Touch of brake, not too much. Fine, now turn off the runway along the glim-lit perimeter track and back to the take-off position again. There’s someone else up, I can see his nav. lights. Wonder who it is? I rumble along the peri. track to head back for the end of the runway. Must say, I can see Tink’s point, I’d rather like a bash on Hampdens myself. After all, they’re what I wanted when I first thought about joining up, except that my ambitions were no higher than to be a gunner.
“Will it be very dangerous?”
God knows, Betty, but as you say, what has to be will be, and there is no turning back, one must simply live for and through the minute, even the second, and do what has to be done, enduring what has to be endured with fortitude.
Something’s irritating me, and I can’t think what, except there’s something here which shouldn’t be. My God! Yes! The cockpit is full of red light, now it’s flashing off and on, urgently. Stop. Tread on the brakes. She creaks and jerks to an abrupt halt. The red light stops flashing at me and someone taxies past me in the opposite direction. Wow! So that’s what the red was all about?
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Must stop this day-dreaming. Only two more circuits and I can pack it in, hand over to Aage and hit the sack. I’ll be about ready for it, too.
There’s my green. Hope he doesn’t report me for taxying through a red. It was only a dozen yards – I think. Oh, well, can’t do a thing about it now. No harm done, so here goes, back to my take-off point. Turn on to the runway, uncage the gyro on 0, open her up. We’re off again.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Turn on to 180, see the stars sliding around. Between the field and the town, now. Nice and easy, purring along, last landing coming up, then into the pit.
“I miss you here, I miss our walks in the park.”
I wish I were meeting you after this, Betty, ‘you’d be so nice to come home to’ – I wonder if you still play that record? ‘To come home to and love.’
Coming home – the lights of home – lights – lights – lights! What the hell’s going on? All those lights, ahead, and coming straight for me? Hell! Get the stick back, you’re in a dive, heading straight for the town! You’ve been asleep, you bloody fool. Come on, come on, ease out. The lights slide below me. Thank God for that. I risk a look at the altimeter – 500 feet. God. Another few seconds, and that would have been it, smack into the town centre, curtains. I reach up and slam the canopy open, letting the cold night air flood in, taking deep breaths to wake myself up. I climb cautiously back to circuit height, select wheels down and duly get my green from the A.C.P., as though nothing at all had happened. I turn across wind, edging towards the flarepath. Shove the nose down, turn port, full flap, headlamp on, heading straight in. I land, thankfully, and exhale with relief. Aage is ready and waiting to take over the kite as I dump my ‘chute, blinking in the bright light of the crewroom, and fill in the Authorisation Book.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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The murmur of voices nearby awoke me. I pulled the bedclothes around my ears, but it was no good. I was awake, back to life again. I sat up, yawned, looked at my watch – 0820. Still in time for breakfast, if I hurried. Brian, Tim, Tink and Soren were in a huddle across the other side of the hut, talking in hushed voices, looking solemn. Two strange erks were standing near Aage’s bed. I was puzzled.
“Hey, Tink!” I called, sitting on the edge of my bed and yawning again, “Tink!”
He looked over his shoulder and came across to me. I nodded towards the strangers.
“What’s cooking?” I asked.
“It’s Aage.”
“Aage? What about him?”
“He’s dead. He crashed, night flying, last night.”
“He what?” I gasped, fully awake in an instant, “He crashed? How the hell did it happen?”
Tink shrugged.
“No-one knows, he just went in, about four miles away, that’s all we know.”
“Christ,” I whispered, “poor old Aage. He’s definitely - ?”
“Oh, yes,” Tink said, “no doubt about it, I’m afraid.”
I said, quietly, “He took over my kite, last night, you know.”
Tink said, “Was it O.K. when you had it?”
“Of course, no trouble at all.”
I didn’t want to mention my falling asleep, not even to Tink. He sighed.
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answered, remembering the lights rushing towards me, “it certainly makes you think.”
(‘What has to be, will be.’)
“Mail up!” someone shouted, and there was a clatter of feet hurrying down the hut. There would be no mail for Aage. Another day had begun.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] “Yes, my darling daughter” [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] “YES, MY DARLING DAUGHTER” [/underlined]
“What was it you did yesterday?” Flying Officer Sparks asked, “advanced formation, am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, wondering what was in store for me that morning. He pinched his lower lip between thumb and finger and frowned with silent concentration, his black moustache looking more luxuriant than ever.
“Well now, I think you’d better do some steep turns, climbing turns and a forced landing. An hour, solo. Take 2614. Don’t do all your turns to port, you don’t want to give yourself a left-handed bias, and watch you don’t black yourself out in your steep turns. Now. Forced landings. Don’t touch down anywhere, you only do that with an instructor. Don’t go below a hundred feet, and thirdly, don’t cheat and have a field picked ready, close your throttle at random when you’re doing something else. If you do ever have an engine failure you won’t be able to pick and choose the time or the place. All right? Any questions?”
“I take it I keep my undercarriage up, sir?”
“Yes, better a belly landing and a bent prop than a somersault if you try a wheels down landing on an unknown surface. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Right, off you go, then.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I came to attention, about-turned smartly and went out of the Instructors’ Office into the pupils’ crewroom of ‘F’ Flight, No. 32 Service Flying Training School, Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, on the Canadian prairies.
I felt buoyant that morning; I was feeling very fit and happy and I knew I was flying well. It was a beautiful early summer day with a few puffs of fair-weather cumulus at about five thousand feet, with a light breeze to temper the already growing heat. The constant drone of Harvards filled the air, punctuated by the fierce, ear-splitting howl and crackle of the high-speed propeller tips as one fled down the runway like a scalded cat, tail up, and took off, flashing yellow in the sunlight and tucking its wheels neatly up as it left
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the runway.
Tim and Soren, two of the twenty or so Norwegians on our course – in fact, the R.A.F. were in the minority on Course 32 – were sitting in the crewroom. They completed my formation of three when we flew, and we were great buddies. Tim looked up and grinned.
“No formation for us this morning, eh?”
“No, not this morning, Tim. I hear that you’re grounded, anyhow, for trying to make me spin in off a turn!”
I was joking, of course, and Tim knew it; on’s [sic] loyalty to one’s formation was absolute. Tim laughed hugely, his lean, brown face, normally rather grave, was transformed.
“Anyhow,” I said, “he’s not fit to fly with a face like that,” and I pointed to Soren, who was feeding a nickel into the juke box. There was a thud, and out came the seductive voice of Dinah Shore.
“Mother, may I go out dancing?
Yes, my darling daughter.
Mother, may I try romancing?
Yes, my darling daughter – “
It was practically our course signature tune at Moose Jaw, everybody sang, whistled or hummed it and selected it on whatever juke box was handiest, whether here in the crewroom or out at Smoky Joe’s, the cafe at the camp gates, on the dust road which led to town. Soren looked up. He had a bottle of coke in one hand, a split lip and a discoloured right eye. He grinned at me.
“Ah, but it was just a friendly little fight with a couple of Canadians, nothing serious at all.”
Soren’s favourite occupation on his evenings out was to have several drinks then find someone to fight. Strangely enough, he never fought with any R.A.F. bloke.
“See you later, then,” I said to them. Tim gave a vague wave, Sorne’s eyes were already shut as he lay full length on a convenient bench, arms crossed on his chest, his mop of incredibly blond hair gleaming in the sun which poured in through the window.
“What if there’s a moon, mother darling, and it’s shining on the water?” I sang to myself as I crossed the expanse of concrete
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in front of the hangars, under the blazing sun, my parachute bumping against the backs of my knees, the morning breeze finding its way pleasantly inside my unbuckled helmet. It was so hot that we were able to fly in shirtsleeves. Up at eight or ten thousand feet it was delightfully cool, but at ground level the temperature could climb to the 120’s in the sun by afternoon.
I found 2614 among the half dozen kites parked in line facing the hangar. Someone had thoughtfully left the canopy open to minimise the heat in the cockpit. I checked that the pitot-head cover was off, I didn’t want to get airborne and find that the airspeed indicator was out of action. Then I climbed in off the port wing-root, clicking the leg-straps of my ‘chute into the quick-release box as I did so. An erk was standing by with the starter trolley. I did up my safety harness while I was busy with the pre-start cockpit check. I operated the priming pump and shouted “Contact!”, switching on the ignition, and with the stick held firmly back into my stomach I pressed the starter switch. The propeller staggered, jumped, staggered again, then caught as the engine roared into life. the prop-tips became a yellow semi-circular blur in front of my eyes. The erk wheeled away the trolley, parking it to one side where I could see it.
I tested the controls for the full movement and ran up the engine, buckled my helmet securely and pulled the seat up hard against the straps, waving away the chocks. The erk gave me the thumbs-up. I toed the brakes off, opened the throttle a little, and we rolled. I taxied with exaggerated care, knowing that F/O Sparks was probably watching me. I had been told off by him once or twice for taxying carelessly. So I ruddered the nose meticulously, each way in turn, at 45 degrees to my direction of travel, which enabled me to see ahead, to the sides of the big 450 horse-power radial engine. A taxying accident was a very serious matter indeed, and a Court Martial was the automatic sequel.
I arrived at the end of the twin runways in use and squinted up into the flare; no-one was on his approach. A final check on the windsock and on the cockpit settings, then I turned on to the runway, pushing on a little rudder to ensure I was absolutely in
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line and central. I set the gyro to ‘0’ and uncaged it, then glanced up to make doubly certain that the canopy was fully back, just in case anything went wrong on take-off and I had to get out in a hurry. Then a final deep breath and we were off. I eased open the throttle to its fullest extent. We rolled, rumbling over the runway, keeping straight with small pushes on the rudder. The engine note rose to a deafening howl and the pressure on the stick increased as we gathered speed and as I eased the stick central. We were in a flying attitude, tail up and charging down the runway which was vanishing with amazing rapidity under the nose of the aircraft. At 65, a slight backward pressure on the stick – not quite ready. At 70, a bump or two, then the incredibly smoothness of being airborne.
I whipped up the wheels, holding the nose just above the horizon to pick up speed, then I throttled back to climbing boost and revs, and reaching up, slid the canopy shut. It was a bit quieter then, and I could relax a little. I adjusted the climbing angle to give me 100 m.p.h., saw with satisfaction that the gyro was still on ‘0’, and did a quick check on all the instrument readings, going swiftly round the cockpit in a clockwise direction. The altimeter slowly wound around its way towards the cotton-wool cumulus.
“Mother, may I go out dancing?
Yes, my darling daughter,” I sang loudly to myself.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“How right he was,” I thought as I brought her smoothly out of a steep turn, “you can black yourself out in one of these.”
I had tightened the turn gradually, to the left, which I could do without conscious effort, toeing on top rudder to keep the nose pushing around the horizon, the stick fairly tightly into my stomach to tighten the turn in on itself. As the rate-of-turn indicator hovered around the 3 1/2 mark I could feel myself being crushed down into the seat, my cheeks were being pulled downwards, and the instruments had become rather fuzzy as the ‘g’ took hold of the blood in my brain, sucking it down out of my head. Then, as I came out of the turn and the ‘g’ decreased, I stretched myself against the straps as the pressure slackened, and bared my teeth in a mirthless grin
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to restore my features to their correct shape.
“Forced landing next,” I said to myself as I slowly but firmly closed the throttle, stopping it just before the place where the undercarriage warning horn would sound. I was at about six thousand feet, to the west of Moose Jaw. Several miles away, to the north-east, I could see another Harvard stooging along, probably on a cross-country, and away to the north a civil DC3 was flying the beam from Regina to Swift Current. I gently pushed the nose down into the quietness, selected flaps down and hand-pumped on 15 degrees. In a real engine failure you would have to do it this way, the hard way. I slid the canopy open and was all set to pick what would laughingly be called my ‘field’; in this part of the world what passed for a field was rather rare.
The prairie lay below in its muted colours, the occasional yellow dust road straight as a string, the sun flashing briefly on some watercourse. About thirty miles to starboard there seemed to be some line-squalls building up already above the low hills which marked the border of Canada with the neutral U.S.A. I put the kite into a shallow glide. Then I saw my field, a green, squarish paddock with two white buildings in one corner, a dirt road leading up to them. I settled the airspeed on 80 and turned towards the paddock, losing height slowly but steadily in a succession of well-banked turns like the descending hairpins of a mountain road. The green postage stamp of the paddock grew larger. From the smoke of a small fire somewhere on the prairie I saw I would be roughly into wind on my final approach. The white buildings grew into the size of matchboxes.
“What a God-forsaken place,” I thought, “imagine being stuck out here, miles from anywhere, no town, no trees, lots of damn-all connected by roads.”
Then I notice a movement near the house. One figure was standing just outside it, then it was joined by another. Still I glided down, mentally noting airspeed and altimeter readings with quick glances, checking and assessing my position in relation to the paddock. I used to sideslip Tigers with contemptuous ease to get them into the
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field at Sywell, it became my trademark before I left there, but I’d never tried to sideslip a Harvard. Come to think, perhaps this wasn’t the time to start. The horizon had lifted quite a lot. I was going to make it all right, I thought. The prop windmilled ahead of me and I had the urge to open the throttle to make sure that the engine was still functioning; it seemed an age since I had cut the power off. I dropped the nose and did a final turn to port. Airspeed back to 80, pump down full flap, line up, into wind, on to the paddock.
It was a man and a girl standing there watching me, the sun gleaming on their upturned faces. The man was pointing upwards, towards me, he had put his arm protectively around the girl’s shoulders. His daughter, I thought. I imagined them speaking to one another in their slightly harsh Canadian voices, anxious as to what was going to happen next to the aircraft, to me – and to them and their home. I saw the girl give a small wave of the hand, nervously, encouragingly, almost as though she were trying to placate some force, to stave off a possible disaster, and I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that they would be thinking that I was in trouble. Two ordinary people, the tenor of their lonely lives disturbed as never before, by my so casual and uncaring intrusion.
Altitude 150 feet. Airspeed 80. It was, if I said it myself, a honey of an approach, I could have put her down with no trouble at all. They were both waving now and I could distinguish their features. I had them firmly fixed in my mind as father and daughter. Perhaps he was a widower, living out his hard life on the land which his ancestors had farmed since the Indians had left, perhaps his pretty daughter had sacrificed her youth, her prospects and hopes of marriage, to look after her father and help on their farm, burying herself in their lonely world. They were remote there from everything of violence, receiving news of the war over the radio from professionally cheerful and brash newsreaders, couched in terms that they could merely imperfectly comprehend: Europe was far away, dominated by some tyrant of whom they knew little, opposed only by distant and defiant English cousins whom they had never seen, and whose ways were as strange and unknown to them as those of the biblical characters of whom perhaps they read daily at the end of their quiet evenings together.
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I saw him clasp her to himself protectively, and I saw also that I was now below 100 feet. Firmly, I opened the throttle fully. The engine surged with power, its roar doubly deafening after the long glide down. I eased the nose up and gently started to milk off the flap. The house slid beneath my port wing. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the two figures. He was greying, slightly stooped, in brown bib-and-brace overalls, she a slim girl in a vivid blue frock, her dark hair like a halo round her face. I suddenly thought of Betty. They stood, their arms around each other, as I flew over them.
Then I had the strange and unaccountably peaceful feeling that in those few minutes I had known them all my life. It was as though time itself had become distorted, elongated, to envelop the three of us in some temporal vacuum in a cul-de-sac off the normal path of consciousness, where the clock of the world stood still and where we had, in some mysterious way, experienced a fragment chipped off the endless expanse of eternity, wherein the three of us had been united as one.
The horizon sank away below the Harvard’s nose. I was back again in my element after those eerie few seconds. I looked down at them for the last time. She was standing with both hands pressed to her face. Then her father slowly raised his right hand, as though in benediction. I climbed away into the summer sunshine. And I sang, to no-one but myself, but thinking of the girl down there –
“Mother, must I keep on dancing?
“Yes, my darling daughter!”
I turned the Harvard’s nose for home.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Crewing-up [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] CREWING-UP [/underlined]
Although there are many things which happened at that time when we looked directly into “the bright face of danger”, there are some, and regrettably, some of the most important, the recollection of which steadfastly eludes me. This of course pains me greatly, as the men I was about to meet were destined in those six all too short months to leave an indelible and now poignant impression upon my memory.
My recurring faint recollection is somehow associated with being in a group of other pilots, pupils at 11 O.T.U., Bassingbourne, not far from Cambridge, quite near to the place of execution of Dick Turpin at Caxton Gibbet, and later to become an American Flying Fortress base. We were gathered at the end of one of the hangars in the morning sunshine, practising what little skills we had acquired on the use of the sextant, taking sun-sights and from them plotting the latitude of our position, which was, of course, easily checked by our, at that stage in our training, benign instructors. Perhaps their thoughts were couched in similar terms to those which Connie was to use in conversation with me a year or more later, and in totally different circumstances and surroundings – “They don’t know what’s coming to them, poor sods, do they, Yoicks?”
None of us knew what was coming, for better or for worse, to us, and I was certainly not to know that within the hour I was to meet, and for the next six months – (was it really as little as that?) – become associated with and know intimately five of the finest men, in my opinion, who ever walked the earth. Men who became closer to me, closer to each other, than brothers, than my and their own flesh and blood, men who were mutually supportive in the intangible but unyielding bond which perhaps only aircrew or ex-aircrew can comprehend, men, four of whom had already entered the last six months of their short lives.
We put away our sextants, thankfully, in most cases. There were about twenty of us pilots on the course, both from the United
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Kingdom and the Dominions. My own particular friends were Charlie from Newcastle, Hi-lo, a rugged, rangy Canadian and the man who was to become his Observer, a cheerful Australian named Laurie, and also Roddy, another Canadian, smiling and lively, whom I often addressed, attempting, not unkindly, to imitate his accent, as Raddy. He, Hi-lo and Laurie were soon to be posted with me to 12 Squadron. All three were also soon to die.
We had completed our introduction to the Wellington under the tutelage of ‘screened’ ex-operational pilots, on somewhat battle-weary ex-Squadron aircraft. The inevitable ‘circuits and bumps’ – a few of the bumps quite heavy – had been the order of the day, and of the night, a fortnight of them. I astonished myself by going solo on what were in my eyes monstrously large twin-engined aircraft, having gained my wings on single engined Harvards, in less than three hours. Perhaps it was due not so much to skill and ability as to confidence, or perhaps over-confidence. Looking back on it now it never ceases to astound me and I have to consult my log book to verify the figure of a mere two hours and forty five minutes instruction.
One interesting feature of this fortnight was that before we flew at night we practised what were known as ‘day-night’ landings. Flying in broad daylight with an instructor as safety pilot, we wore specially tinted goggles which gave the impression of surrounding darkness, while the runway was marked by sodium lights which showed up brightly and gave us the line of approach and landing. It was a novel and rather weird experience, but a very useful one, preparing us for the real thing, flying at night in much-reduced visibility, our eyes fixed almost exclusively on the blind-flying panel of A.S.I., altimeter, turn and bank indicator, gyro compass, artificial horizon, and rate of climb and dive indicator.
And so, to one degree or another proficient enough pilots of the Wellington, we were ready to be crewed up.
‘George’, as automatic pilots were universally known, were rare pieces of equipment in late 1941, so every Wellington was crewed by
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two pilots who shared the manual flying (of anything up to 7 1/2 hours on some operations) and one of whom was designated as captain of the aircraft, almost invariably addressed as ‘skipper’ or more usually ‘skip’. Once in the air, however, the pilot was virtually under the orders of his Observer, a misnomer if ever there was one, as he was in no position, huddled in his tiny compartment with his plotting chart and maps, his parallel ruler and sharpened pencils, constantly reading his super-accurate navigation watch, his ‘slave’ altimeter and airspeed indicator, to observe anything outside the aircraft. No pilot, however privately doubtful he might be of the Observer’s statement of the aircraft’s position relative to the earth, or of his instructions to alter course on to a given heading at a certain time, ever had the temerity to question him as to these matters except in the mildest and most oblique of terms. To do otherwise was to risk a most sarcastic reply, usually culminating in the curt riposte, “You just do the flying and let me do the navigating.” Later, on the Squadron I was to learn that Observers as a clan – and a Freemasonlike clan they were, dabbling in the impenetrable mysteries of running fixes, square searches, back-bearings, drifts and suchlike – were sometimes irreverently known as the Two-Seventy Boys, after their alleged persistent habit of, having bombed some German target and being urgently asked by the pilot for a course “to get the Hell out of here”, would airily answer, “Just steer two-seventy,” that being West. The Observer was also the crew member who released the bombs, his bomb selector panel down in the starboard side of the aircraft’s nose being somewhat inappropriately known as the Mickey Mouse, for a reason I never discovered, directing the pilot from his prone position between the front turret and the pilot’s feet on the rudder pedals with what was usually a breathless series of instructions, “Left, left”, “Right” or “Steady”, the word “left” always being repeated so as not to be confused with “right” against the various external and internal noises of a bomber aircraft. Current at the time was a somewhat school-boyish joke that one Observer had so far forgotten himself in the excitement of the bombing run to call urgently to the pilot, “Back a bit!”
The remaining three crew members each wore the air gunner’s ‘AG’ half-wing on his chest. But one, in addition, had the cluster of
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lightning flashes of a wireless operator on his sleeve and was invariably referred to, not by the official designation of wireless operator/air gunner but with the racy and succinct abbreviation ‘WopAG’. His was the task of obtaining as many bearings on radio stations, both R.A.F. and, if he was able, B.B.C. and German civilian stations such as Hamburg or Deutschlandsender and pass the information to the Observer in the next compartment. He must also, at designated times, listen out to messages from his base aerodrome and also his Group Headquarters. In addition, in emergency, he could attempt to obtain a course to steer to any given bomber station by requesting from them a QDM, the code for that information. But this was regarded as being rather infra dig.
The two ‘straight AGs’, as the other gunners were known, occupied their respective gun turrets with a few inches to spare, one at the front and one at the rear of the aircraft, the coldest positions, despite their electrically heated leather Irvin suits. In the ‘tail-end Charlie’s’ case it was the loneliest position in the aircraft and the most hazardous if attacked by a Luftwaffe night-fighter, but the safest if a sudden crash-landing became necessary, or if the order to bale out was given in some dire emergency, when he simply rotated his turret through ninety degrees, clipped on his parachute, jettisoned the turret doors and fell out backwards. Each turret was equipped with two .303 inch Browning guns, lovingly maintained and cared for by their users, pitifully inadequate when compared to the cannon of the German night-fighters.
To be in the firing line of these Luftwaffe cannon was not at all pleasant. Although never, fortunately, experiencing it in the air, Charlie, my room-mate, and I, billeted in Kneesworth Hall close to the aerodrome, on the old Roman road of Ermine Street, were quietly writing letters one evening in our first-floor room when we heard, and ignored, the noise of the air-raid siren from the village. Bassingbourn was one of the nearest training aerodromes, and certainly the nearest bomber O.T.U., to the east coast, although a fair distance from it. But this fact must have been well known to the enemy, who paid us periodic visits. One aircraft, in fact – I believe it was a Junkers 88 – either by design or mischance actually landed at
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Steeple Morden, our satellite aerodrome and became the property of H.M. Government and the Air Ministry, subsequently appearing as part of the circus of captured German aircraft in flying condition which we once saw flying out of Duxford, a nearby fighter station, where they were based, and heavily escorted by a squadron of Spitfires indulging in some plain and fancy flying around them to discourage curious onlookers such as we, who might have gone so far as to try to shoot them down, if in sufficiently rash a mood. However, to return to Kneesworth Hall and the air raid warning. Charlie and I carried on with our respective writing until we were suddenly aware of a strange aircraft engine noise becoming rapidly louder, accompanied by the loud and staccato banging of cannon-fire as the German intruder shot-up the road, the village and approaches to the aerodrome. Our letters were swiftly thrown aside as we, with violent expletives, flung ourselves under our respective beds. My future rear gunner also had a tale to tell concerning an attack by an intruder.
The taking of sun-sights over, we were instructed to gather in one of the hangars to be crewed up. There was, as I recall, no formal procedure attached to this important and far-reaching event. One of two instructors acted somewhat like shepherds directing straggling sheep to make up a group of six which was to be a crew. There must have been a hundred or more aircrew of all categories milling around rather haphazardly until, perhaps, a beckoning hand, a lifted eyebrow or a resigned grin bonded one man to another or to a group as yet incomplete. The whole procedure, if indeed it could be graced by that term, seemed to be quite without organisation, the complete antithesis of all previous group activities I had experienced since putting on my uniform eleven months before. Here, there was no falling-in in threes, or lining up alphabetically. (And how I used to long for anyone named Young who would replace me, the invariable and forlorn last man in any line for whatever was to be received or done.)
“You lookin’ f’r ‘n Observer?”
He was tallish, rather sallow and thin-faced, in Australian dark blue uniform with its black buttons, Sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves, the winged ‘0’ above his breast pocket.
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“Sure. Glad to have you,” I said.
This was Colin, more often than not simply ‘Col’. He was to guide us unfailingly through the skies, friendly skies by day and night, then through the hostile moonlit spaces over Germany and Occupied Europe. Col, from Randwick, near Sydney, with his baritone voice which quite often suddenly creaked, almost breaking as he spoke, with his wry sense of humour, his sudden, almost apologetic half-stifled laughter, his strange, colourful vocabulary – “Take five!” His term, sometimes sarcastically uttered, of approval. And when he suspected that I or some other member of the crew was trying to kid him – “Aw, don’t come the raw prawn!” A single man, his father working for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.
Later, one night on ops with the Squadron to Kiel where the Gneisenau was skulking after its dash up the Channel from Brest with the Scharnhorst and Prinz Eugen, Col performed a wonderfully accurate piece of navigation. It was on an occasion, of which there were several, when the Met. forecast was completely inaccurate, which we feared when we entered cloud at 600 feet after take-off. We climbed slowly until we could climb no more in the thin air and reached 20,500 feet, still in cloud, a faint blur of moonlight showing above us. We bombed the centre of the flak concentration in the target area, completely blind, but saw several large explosions which we duly reported on our interrogation back at base. Losing height slowly on the way back and with an unwelcome passenger in the shape of the 1000 pound bomb which had hung-up, I broke cloud at something around 1000 feet on return, a mere four miles south of our intended position, to see the welcome finger of Spurn Head down to starboard and the four red obstruction lights of a radar station near Cleethorpes gleaming ahead. Over seven hours in cloud and an error of only four miles, thanks to Col’s abilities. It was on this raid, by Wellingtons, 68 in total, of our No. 1 Group, that the Gneisenau was so badly damaged that she never sailed again from her berth. Many of her crew were killed. Perhaps it was our bombs that had done the damage, who knows.
I once found Col, on an op, being quietly sick into a tin at the side of his plotting-table, his face ashen, but carrying on despite that.
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Such was his dauntless spirit. He had my unspoken sympathy as a fellow-sufferer.
A pale, poker-faced and very quiet Royal Canadian Air Force sergeant pilot attached himself to us. Elmer, as the rest of the crew came to christen him, was silent to a degree, but despite that somehow exuded a quiet if somewhat forlorn determination. When we reached the Squadron in October he joined Mike Duder’s crew. Five of the six of them were killed when, damaged by flak over Essen on Mike’s 29th trip, his last but one of his tour had he completed it, they were finished off by a night-fighter and crashed in Holland. It was not until many years later that I learned a little more about Elmer. Although in the R.C.A.F., he was not, in fact, a Canadian, but a citizen of the United States of American, from St. Paul, Minnesota. Before Pearl Harbor [sic] he had an urge to fly against the Germans, possibly because of his Central European forbears. He volunteered for the U.S. Air Force as a pilot and underwent his initial training. Unfortunately, like many others, he had trouble with his landings and was failed. He returned home undeterred, with his desire to become a pilot undimmed. To raise money for the course of action upon which he had decided, he took a job in a sweet factory and augmented his wages by working as a petrol pump attendant. He then travelled to Canada and enlisted in the R.C.A.F. This time he successfully completed his training and got his long-desired wings. All this I learned years later when I was able to trace his sister-in-law and with a residual sense of guilt over my at times impatient, if not downright snappy instructions to him in the air, I have attempted to salve my conscience by having several times visited his grave, and those of his crew, in a war cemetery in a small, neat town in the Netherlands.
The ‘father’ of our crew was Mick, our Wop/AG, the only married man amongst us. In peacetime – or ‘civvy street’ as it was invariably known – he had worked at Lucas’ in Birmingham and was knowledgeable on most things electrical and mechanical, owning a small Ford car as well as a motor cycle. The former was later well used on stand-down nights on the Squadron for trips into G.Y. (as Grimsby was known) and I once had the doubtful pleasure of a hair-raising pillion ride
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over snow-covered skating rink minor roads, on his motor cycle, also into Grimsby, which was almost as nerve-wracking to me as a trip to Essen. Mick (this was not his given name) was tallish, fairly well-built, with a high forehead, a studious manner, a slight ‘Brummy’ accent and an unconsciously querulous voice. It was he, I think, who christened me ‘Harry’, by which name I became known by the rest of the crew, and the use of which, after their loss, I have strongly discouraged. Mick had done part of his training somewhere in Lincolnshire and had frequented, and knew the landlady, Edna, of the Market Hotel on Yarborough Road in G.Y., which became a home from home for us on stand-down nights. He had a habit concerning which Col and I wryly complained on several occasions, of, on being asked over the intercom. for some information, would testily reply, “Hey, shut up, I’m listening out to Group.” We met his wife once, in the ‘Market’, Mick proudly introducing her to us all, a shy, rather self-effacing girl, soon to become a widow.
Our gunners were a wonderfully contrasted pair. Johnnie, from a small Suffolk town – and again, not his given name – in the front turret, was slim, neat in appearance, quiet of speech and demeanour, moderate in his choice of words and apparently completely without fear. No matter what the circumstances, his voice over the intercom. was as calm and measured as though he were indulging in casual conversation over a glass of beer. On the way to Essen one night we were suddenly coned in a dozen or more searchlights and the German flak gunners got to work on us. Cookie was hurling the aircraft all over the sky in his attempts to get us out of the mess, and I was being hurled all over the interior of the aircraft, which was lit up as bright as day. In a steep dive, attempting to escape from the combined attack of searchlights and flak bursts, Johnnie, without being told, opened fire with several short bursts from his twin Brownings on the searchlight batteries, and immediately we were freed from them as they snapped out as though all controlled by a single switch. Johnnie bought himself no beer the next time we went to the ‘Market’.
In contrast to Johnnie’s urbanity there was Tommy, our cockney rear gunner. I am still looking for Tommy, still seeking to discover what became of him after he was admitted to hospital after a few ops with us, whether even today, somewhere, he is alive. J – would have
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described him, had she, like me, had the good fortune to know him, as being like Tigger, a very bouncy animal. Although not tall, he was built like a boxer or a rugby prop forward, solid, chunky – even more so when kitted up in his Irvin suit – with a gleaming broad red face, scarred in one place, topped by rather long and slightly untidy Brylcreemed hair, his face almost always split in a broad grin. He was cheerful, cocky, good-humoured, never short of a quip, lively and effervescent, and he was a tonic to us all when things were going against us.
He laughingly described to us one incident in which he was involved while in his training Flight in the weeks before coming into the crew. He had been on a night cross-country involving an air-to-sea firing exercise, aiming, presumably, at a flame float which they dropped in the English Channel. Several other gunners were taken along on the trip and after Tommy had fired his allotted number of rounds he retired to the rest bed half way down the Wellington’s fuselage, unplugged his intercom., closed his eyes and fell asleep, the padded earpieces of his helmet dulling the noise of the engines and of the rattle of the Brownings fired by his fellow-pupils. He awoke with a start, someone shaking him violently and yelling in his ear, “Bale out! Bale out!” The aircraft was being jinked around the sky in evasive action from the attack of a German fighter. By the time Tommy had collected his wits, found and clipped on his parachute and jumped through the open escape hatch, the aircraft was down to approximately 600 feet, the lowest safe altitude to allow a parachute to open. No sooner had it done so than he was down to earth, to the softest of all possible landings – in a haystack.
He had no idea where he was, nor what had happened to the aircraft or to the others in it, and certainly no idea of the planned route of the cross-country flight.
“I hadn’t a bloody clue where the hell I was,” he told us, “could’ve been in France, Germany England, any bloody where.”
So he collected his deployed parachute into his arms and in the darkness plodded away from the scene of his sudden and fortuitous landing upon the earth. The unfamiliar countryside was silent and
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dark. He came upon a ditch under a hedge and rightly decided to spend the night there. In the morning he would take stock of his position. In the ditch, he rolled himself into his parachute, comfortably warm inside his leather Irvin suit and once more slept.
In the morning, at daylight, he cautiously emerged to size up the situation. On the other side of the hedge was a narrow road. Keeping well hidden, he awaited developments. Presently, the distant sound of voices alerted him and two men dressed in farm-workers’ clothes came walking along the lane. Tommy strained his ears to catch their conversation, to determine what language they were speaking. To his relief he heard familiar English words. Tommy emerged and, perhaps too quickly, confronted them. But startled as they were by his sudden appearance and flying clothing, they were soon convinced of his nationality when he employed his colourful vocabulary to some effect. They directed him to the nearest house where he received some much-needed refreshment and telephoned his flight Commander at Bassingbourn.
On our evenings out at the ‘Market’ in G.Y. he always made a point of collecting small empty ginger ale bottles after one or other of us – often it was I – had added the contents to our gin. These he would take along on our next op., storing them handily in his already cramped rear turret ready for use. We had heard it said that if caught in searchlights, a couple of empty bottles thrown out would, during their descent, scream like falling bombs and cause the searchlight crew to douse their light, and one night on the approach to the Happy Valley, as the Ruhr, with the somewhat black humour of bomber crews, was known, when we were trapped in searchlights he proved, by throwing out a few bottles, that this was no old wives’ tale. It worked like a charm and we slipped through the defences and on to Essen.
(Soon afterwards, on leave, I was relating this to an elderly and very unworldly female relation, who, to my amazement and vast amusement was alarmed and scandalised, wide-eyed and open mouthed. “Oh! But you might have killed somebody!” she exclaimed.)
I have made several attempts to find out whether Tommy survived the war. In correspondence with a contemporary Squadron member, he
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wrote to say that he had a copy of a Squadron Battle Order in which Tommy’s name appeared in relation to an operation, as rear gunner in some crew whose names were unfamiliar to me, but that Tommy’s name had been crossed out in pencil and another substituted. Whatever the significance of that, neither he nor I could tell after the lapse of time. A message on the Internet, placed by my Dutch friends, has produced no result.
Are you out there somewhere, Tommy? If so, you and I are the only two survivors of the six who came together on that sunny August day in the echoing hangar at Bassingbourn those years ago. I miss you all, more than words can express; I think of you every day that passes, and I never cease to grieve for you, nor ever shall.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[underlined] Enemy coast [/underlined]
Through cockpit window now,
The lemon-slice of moon,
Some random stars
Pricked in a hemisphere of indigo.
Ahead, the coastline waits –
Pale, wavering beams
As innocent as death
Rehearse the adagio ballet
Which will transfix us
On pinnacles of light
For ravening guns.
But for a space
In this brief, breathless safety,
Poised high above the metal
Of the neutral sea,
We hang in vacuum,
Scattered like moths,
Mute castaways in sky.
Until, inevitable, we penetrate
The charnel-house of dreams,
That swift unveiling of Apocalypse
Familiar to us
As the routine holocaust
Which other men call night.
H.Y.
June 1991
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[inserted] [underlined] Images of mortality [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] IMAGES OF MORTALITY [/underlined]
Someone, once, to whom I had been talking – perhaps, it must be admitted, at rather too great length – of my time at Binbrook, cut across my words impatiently with, “Ah, yes, but you were at an impressionable age then.”
Not being by nature argumentative I let the comment pass, and the subject was rapidly changed. But the memory of that remark has remained with me. Broadly, I would not dispute its accuracy, for surely, at whatever age one is, one should be, and should remain, impressionable. But here, the implication seemed to be that the events I had been speaking of were not of such importance to have remained so strongly in my memory as they had done. I was then, and still find myself now, a little annoyed by that viewpoint. The happenings of that period of time were of considerable importance to us participants, and the young men, or youths, as some of us were who were involved, were all, in their own individual ways remarkable to one extent or another, by any standards of unbiased judgement. But perhaps my bias is showing.
Be that as it may, when I think of Binbrook now, there comes into my mind a cascade of kaleidoscopic impressions of scenes, small scenes maybe, and of faces and voices, images of places and of people fixed into my memory like the black and white snapshots secured in an album of photographs.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
It was a shock to me when I saw it for the first time, walking up the road from the Mess towards the hangars. Being a peacetime Station – only just – Binbrook was equipped with the standard pattern of permanent buildings, including a row of what had been married quarters – a few semi-detached, two-storied houses. For some seconds I couldn’t think what had happened over there when I saw that most of the top storey of one of the houses had been shattered and was broken off. I halted in my stride, quite appalled at the unexpected and shocking sight. My first thought, an almost instinctive reaction in those days, was “enemy action”, then it slowly dawned on me that
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this was not so, that the building had, horrifyingly, been struck by one of our own aircraft, either on taking off or on landing, using the short runway. Who it had been, and what casualties had resulted, I never knew. I was too shaken to ask and no-one, certainly, ever volunteered the information. It was not a topic of conversation one indulged in or dwelled upon. But similar incidents were to involve my room-mate, Johnny Stickings, and I was to escape the same fate by only a few scant feet, and by the grace of God.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Johnny had been somewhat longer on the Squadron than I, an Observer in Sergeant O’Connell’s crew. He was short, rather chunky and pale, with straight hair the colour of dark sand. I think we were both much of a type, for while we never went around together, we were perfectly pleasant towards one another and quite happy to be sharing a room, never getting in each other’s way or on each other’s nerves.
One winter’s morning I woke to find his bed still neatly made up and unslept in. At breakfast I heard that his aircraft had crashed the previous night, coming back from an op., on Wilhelmshaven, I believe. As far as anyone could tell me there had been both casualties and survivors. It was later that day when I returned to the room, and found Johnny in bed.
As I recall, he seemed rather dazed and quiet, as well he might have been. He went into few details of the incident; possibly his conscious mind was shying away from the harrowing experience, or perhaps he had been given a sedative. What he did tell me was that when the aircraft crashed he remembered being thrown clear. He had been flung bodily into a small wooden hut on some farmland in Lincolnshire. The hut had collapsed around him and he was only discovered lying in its wreckage by chance, when one of the rescue party noticed the demolished building.
For several years, on the anniversary of the crash, there was an entry in the memorials in the “Daily Telegraph”, to Sergeants O’Connell, Parsons, Laing and Delaney, signed “Johnny”. Then one year the entry no longer appeared.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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Life on the Squadron produced, naturally, shocks to one’s nervous system. Shocks which one could reasonably expect as part and parcel of the normal run of operational flying, and which to one extent or another were predictable. It was the unexpected ones which shook one more violently than the rest; the dazzling blue of a searchlight out of nowhere which flicked unerringly and tenaciously on to one’s aircraft, the long uneventful silence of flying through a black winter’s night being suddenly shattered by a flakburst just off the wingtip. These were things which could set the pulse, in an instant, racing to twice its normal speed.
But there was an incident which occurred in, of all places, the ablutions of the Officers’ Mess, an incident which was so completely unexpected and, at the time, heaven forgive me, so utterly shocking, that it froze me into complete immobility, open-mouthed, horrified, and, for an instant, uncomprehending.
Apart from, as they are termed, the usual offices, in the dimly-lit stone-floored rooms, there were, naturally, a row of washbasins. I was washing my hands at one end of this row one evening when I heard a soft footstep nearby and I distinguished a figure in the feeble blue light which served to illuminate the place. What was so shocking was the face, a random patchwork of different shades of vivid red, white and pink, two long vertical cuts from the ends of the mouth to the chin, the eyelids unnaturally lifeless and mis-shapen, the hair of the head in isolated tufts falling at random on the skull over the brow.
As he moved, I recovered myself and muttered some vague greeting as I went hurriedly out, back to the normality of the well-lit, noisy anteroom. It was a while before I recovered from this un-nerving encounter. Someone subsequently told me about Eddie. He was a burn case, one of McIndoe’s ‘guinea pigs’. A pilot, he had crashed, taking off in a Hampden. The aircraft had burst into flames. The Hampden’s cockpit was notoriously difficult to get out of in a hurry and he had fried in his own greases until he was rescued. Richard Hillary, in his well-known book ‘The Last Enemy’, described Eddie as the worst-burned man in the R.A.F. He was now a pilot in the Target Towing
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Flight, flying drogue-towing Lysanders on gunnery practices.
Possibly because we both frequented the games room a fair amount, he and I slowly drifted together. No-one made any sympathetic noises towards Eddie, that was definitely not done, and no-one made the slightest concession towards him either. He played against me often at table-tennis, with a controlled ferocity which could have only have been born of the desire to live his spared life completely to the full. Frequently, a clump of his dark auburn hair would flop uncontrollably down over his eyes, to expose an area of shiny red scalp, upon which hair would never again grow, one of the numerous grafts on his head and face, the skin having been taken, he told me, mostly from his thighs. He would damn it cheerfully and push it roughly back again with his sudden slash of a broad grin, which never reached his lashless and expressionless eyes.
I had detected some accent which I could not place. One day while we were sitting together in the anteroom, chatting, he mentioned that he was a South African.
“Oh?” I said, “Where from? I’ve got relations out there.”
“Where do they live?”
I named the town.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, “that’s where I’m from; what’s their name?”
I told him.
“Have you a cousin called Edna?”
“Why, yes,” I said, astonishment growing every second.
“I used to go around with her,” he laughed, “it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
Eddie, I am glad to say, survived the war. There is a photograph of him, among others of McIndoe’s ‘Army’, in a book named ‘Churchill’s Few.’
. . . . . . . . . . . .
What can one say of Teddy Bairstow? Only that, had he lived fifty years before his time he would have been described, I am sure, as ‘A Card’ or as ‘A Character’.
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Unlike Tony Payne or Jim Heyworth, for example, he was physically unimpressive; very thin-faced and pale, sparse hair brushed sideways across his head, but with eyes as bright as those of the fox’s head of our mascot. It was his voice, however, which one remembers best, grating, strident and penetrative in its broad Yorkshire accents. When he was in the room, everyone knew it, and the place seemed filled with his jovial, but somehow, rueful, almost apprehensive presence.
Teddy had a stock phrase which he used whenever anyone asked him, for example, what sort of a trip he had had. He would lift his voice in both pitch and volume and exclaim to the world at large, “Ee! ‘twere a shaky do!” He had, to everyone’s knowledge, at least one very shaky do. Coming back from some op, he found, for one reason or another, that he wasn’t going to make it back to Binbrook. But he was reasonably close, he had crossed the Lincolnshire coast, and decided he would force-land his aircraft. But no wheels-up-belly-landing, as he should have done, for Teddy. Incredibly, he did a normal landing, if it could be described in those terms, undercarriage down, in the darkness, into a field near Louth, and got away with it without nosing over into a disastrous cartwheel. Few would have survived to tell the tale – Sergeant O’Connell certainly had not done so – but everyone agreed with Teddy’s usual comment. ‘Twere indeed a shaky do.
Towards the end of February Teddy’s luck ran out. We went after the German pocket-battleship Gneisenau in Kiel Docks, where it was holed up after escaping up the Channel. Teddy did not come back.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Somehow, it happened that Eric and I tended to gravitate together to play billiards or table tennis in the Mess games room, and for the odd glass of beer. It was, I think, possibly because like me, he was the only one of commissioned rank in his crew, apart from Abey, that is, who was his pilot and our Flight Commander, a Squadron Leader, very much senior in rank to both of us. Eric was Abey’s Observer, tall, well built, unfailingly polite, his manner polished and urbane, yet by no means superior. We got along very well; I enjoyed his company, and I like to think he enjoyed mine.
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It was one afternoon when we had a stand-down. Frequently, my crew and I would go in to Grimsby, to the cinema, then to the “Market” for a meal with Edna, the landlady, possibly stay the night, and come back in time to report to the Flights next morning. We usually managed to cram ourselves into Mick’s, our wireless operator’s, Ford. However, on this particular afternoon, possibly because we were broke, there were no such arrangements. I happened to bump into Eric in a corridor, in the Mess. We said “hello”, then he stopped suddenly and said, “I say, are you interested in music?”
“Yes, I am, rather,” I said, not knowing what to expect.
“Well, look, I’m just going along to old Doug’s room, he’s going to play some records – would you like to come along? I’m sure he won’t mind.”
So I went. Doug was pleased to see us both. He wound up his portable gramophone and put on Tchaikovsky’s ‘Valse des Fleurs’. I can never hear that lovely, lilting piece without thinking of that afternoon in Doug Langley’s room, lost in the beauty of discovery of orchestral music, and remembering Doug himself, with his light-ginger hair and luxuriant moustache, sitting, eyes closed, head thrown back, as Eric and I listened attentively. From there, on a subsequent stand-down night we went to a real symphony concert, my first ever, in Grimsby, and a whole new and wonderful world had opened up for me, thanks to Eric and Doug.
Abey’s crew went missing on Kiel, the same night as Teddy Bairstow. It was years later that I knew that Eric, and indeed, the rest of the crew, had survived. Desperate for contacts after J – ‘s death, I hunted through telephone directories until I found his name, and contacted him. After a few phone calls, and the exchange of several long letters, I met him in London. Being the men we are, it was an affectionate but undemonstrative greeting, a handshake and smiles rather than arms around shoulders and tears.
His was a simple story. With quite typical frankness he told me, and M – who was with me, that it was all his fault that they had got shot down. There had, he said, been some fault in his navigation, a very common thing in those days when navigational aids were almost nil, when such things as Gee and H2S had never been heard of. On the way to Kiel they had strayed over Sylt, a notorious hot spot of an island off the Danish-German coast.
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They were hit be flak in their starboard engine, which put it out of action. After a discussion as to the alternatives open to them, Abey had turned for home, in the fond hope that one good engine would be sufficient to carry them to the English coast. It was not to be; they were losing too much height to be able to make it back across the wide and inhospitable North Sea. The next option was to turn round again, fly across enemy-occupied Denmark and try to get to Sweden, where they would bale out and be interned for the duration. Again, their loss of height eventually ruled this out, they would never have a hope of reaching any Swedish territory. The third and final option was to bale out over Denmark. This they did, one after the other, successfully, over the island of Funen. They were all immediately taken prisoner. Eric and Abey finished up in the notorious prison campo Stalag Luft III, Sagan, the scene of the “Wooden Horse” tunnel – and of the murder of fifty aircrew officer prisoners by the Germans.
Eric, to my and to M – ‘s fascination, produced an album of pencil sketches he had made on odd scraps of paper, of prison-camp life. I asked him how he had been treated as a P.o.W., those three and more years that he spent behind the wire. Typically, again, he said, “Oh, I didn’t have too bad a time, really, you know.”
What could one say in reply to that? I simply shook my head in wonder. Of course, among others, we mentioned Teddy Bairstow. He and his crew had not been so fortunate. Nor had Doug Langley, whose grave I found, quite by accident, in a quiet cemetery in norther Holland a short time afterwards.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I returned to Binbrook after many years. But only to the village. I had already found the Market Hotel in Grimsby where I went so often with my crew. I had stood for several minutes, looking up at the windows of the rooms we used to have, and remembering kindly Edna, who treated us like sons. Remembering Col, and Mick, and Johnnie, of my original crew. Remembering Cookie, our skipper, and Mac, our rear gunner, the Canadians among us. Thinking of the man I never knew, Rae, the man who had taken my place, the man who had died instead of me.
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When I arrived at Binbrook, I found I could barely contain my emotion. I recovered myself to some extent while I drank a cup of coffee in the Marquis of Granby, the well-remembered pub in the village. I stood for a long time at the top of the hill, on the road which led down into the valley and up again to the now deserted and silent aerodrome. I stood, remembering again, seeing, across the distance, visions of the Wellingtons I and my friends had flown, parked in their dispersals, the movement of men around them, and their faces, hearing their long-stilled voices. But I could go no closer to them than that. There were too many memories, too many ghosts.
On that fine morning the images of mortality were too real to be borne.
. . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Tony [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] TONY [/underlined]
At the time when I subscribed to ‘Readers’ Digest’ there would appear in each issue a short article entitled ‘The Most Unforgettable Character I Have Ever Met’. I find that this description could fittingly apply to Tony Payne.
When I had the privilege of knowing him, Tony, at the age of 21, was already a veteran in terms of ability and experience, looked up to almost in reverence as one of the elite pilots on the Squadron.
And whenever I recall the Officers’ Mess at Binbrook with its high-ceilinged anteroom just across the main corridor from the dining room, with the eternal, homely smell of coffee from the big urn near to the door, I can visualise Tony as he was so often, standing slightly to one side of the fire, pewter tankard in hand, holding court, as it were, the focal point of all eyes and conversation, eternally smiling and cheerful, his crisp, clear voice sounding above the music from the worn record on the radiogram which would be softly playing a catchy little tune, a favourite of his, called ‘The Cuckoo’. I have never heard it, or heard of it, even, since that time, but I could never forget it, as it was almost Tony’s signature tune. But Tony was entering the last six months of his life.
He had the gift of holding everyone’s attention by his witty observations on most things operational – and non-operational, his words rolling brightly and optimistically off his tongue, his eyes shining with the pleasure of living for the moment, and that moment alone, of good company and comradeship.
Once we were discussing a particular trip. (They were always ‘trips’, occasionally ‘ops’ but never ‘sorties’ or ‘missions’). Someone was describing our attempts to locate some target in Germany one night recently. There had been only sporadic gunfire aimed at us whn [sic] we arrived at about 20,000 feet, and that gunfire, we knew, was not necessarily from the immediate area of the target.
“What did you think about it, Tony?” someone asked. Tony beamed at the question, leaned slightly forward and declaimed with mock solemnity and a judicial air, “Ah! Then I knew that something was afoot!” he said.
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Among his many friends, or ‘familiars’ as they might have once been known, (a description singularly appropriate), was the Senior Flying Control Officer (or ‘Regional Control Officer’ in the terminology then in force) Flight Lieutenant Bradshaw, “Bradders” to everyone. He was old enough to be Tony’s and our father, a World War I pilot beribboned with the ‘Pip, Squeak and Wilfred’ campaign ribbons of that conflict, slightly portly, fairly short in stature, of equable temperament and genial in manner, his iron-grey to white hair meticulously trimmed. A great deal of repartee was invariably exchanged by the two, doubtless born of their mutual affection despite the disparity in their ages.
To our delight one day, Tony hurried into the anteroom in a state of high glee, carrying a small, brown-paper wrapped parcel the size of a large book.
“Wait till you see this, you types!” he crowed to his audience, which included Bradders, who was as intrigued as the rest of us. Tony slowly, tantalisingly slowly, unwrapped his mysterious parcel then dramatically held up its contents for all to see. It was a gilt-framed oil painting of a side-whiskered old man in a country churchyard, his foot upon the shoulder of a spade, a battered old felt hat on his head. The frame bore the title – ‘Old Bradshaw, the village sexton’. It brought the house down and it was ceremoniously hung on the anteroom wall near to the portrait of Flying Officer Donald Garland, one of the Squadron’s two posthumous Victoria Cross recipients, and near also to the mounted fox’s head, our Squadron badge, which had been presented to ‘Abey’, Squadron Leader Abraham, our Flight Commander, on his posting from a Polish O.T.U. where he had been instructing, to 12 Squadron.
At about this time the Air Ministry commissioned Eric Kennington, a noted war artist, to make portraits of outstanding aircrew members, many in Bomber Command, and Tony was one of those selected to sit for him. He sat in his usual place at one end of the anteroom fireplace while Kennington went about his work. The Mess kept a respectful silence while this was proceeding, conversing only in whispers and never attempting to peer over the artist’s shoulder. Some time later, the finished portrait was hung in a place of honour on the wall, to Tony’s laughing embarrassment.
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It was only within these last few years that during a telephone conversation with Eric, my friend, fellow-survivor and table tennis and billiards opponent of those days, who had been Squadron Leader Abraham’s Observer when they were shot down over Denmark, that he asked me if I remembered Tony’s portrait, and whether I knew what happened to it. I confessed that I had almost forgotten about it and did not have any idea what had become of it. But his question touched off in me a desire to find out. It seemed logical that in the first instance I should consult my local Library to see whether they might possibly have any book of the Kennington portraits. It did have such a book, and they brought it out to me. Unfortunately, Tony’s likeness was not among the hundred or so reproduced, but he was mentioned in the index of all the portraits which the artist had undertaken. Where next? I decided that the obvious next step was to contact the R.A.F. Museum at Hendon. There I struck gold. They had the original portrait in storage and swiftly sent me a photo-copy. I obtained two copies, one of which I sent to Eric. Today, a sizeable and well-produced copy of Tony’s portrait hang on my wall where I can look on it with a mixture of affection, pleasure and great sadness, as well as a sense of honour that such a fine man and such a fine pilot could have wanted me to join his crew. I was more than a little surprised when he did so and have often wondered what prompted him to approach me. It was prior to his finishing his first tour, and I have described the incident and its calamitous sequel in the next chapter.
His crew, on his first tour with us, must truly have been quite exceptional. To have completed their tour made them exceptional enough. The chances of that were a considerable way short of evens. There was an example of their ‘press on regardless’ spirit and of the brilliant navigation of Tony’s Observer, Sergeant Dooley, a dapper, smiling little Englishman, on one of our trips to Kiel to bomb the pocket-battleship Gneisenau.
We rarely had an accurate Met. forecast on the trips we did in that winter of 1941-42, and on this night the conditions turned out to be worse than even the Met. Officer had forecast. We took off in the darkness and gloom and entered heavy cloud at 600 feet We climbed
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steadily out over the North Sea but at 20,500 feet we had still not reached clear air. With our bomb load we could climb no higher. We were somewhere in the top of the cloud mass, the moon a faint blur of light on our starboard bow. Below and around us were numerous gun-flashes from the flak defences of Kiel, and as obtaining a visual pinpoint was obviously impossible we bombed the centre of the flak concentration. We turned for home, still in cloud. After over three hours of manual flying, concentrating solely on the instrument panel in front of me, and losing height slowly down to 1,000 feet, I became aware that we had finally reached the cloudbase. Then to my relief and delight I pinpointed Spurn Head, our crossing-in point, about four miles to starboard, and saw the four red obstruction lights of the radar station near Cleethorpes dead ahead. We heartily congratulated Col on his navigation – seven hours plus in cloud and only four miles off track at the end of it.
But Sergeant Dooley and Tony had outshone us. Like us, finding the target in Kiel docks completely cloud-covered he had refused the opportunity to bomb blind as most of us had done. They set course for the Baltic Sea, topped the cloud and found moonlight – and stars. Flying straight and level, which one had to do to take astro-shots of the various stars on the astrograph chart, and which one could safely do over the sea, but which was a most unhealthy undertaking over hostile territory, Sergeant Dooley obtained an astro fix of their exact position. He then plotted a dead-reckoning track and course to the target, some distance away, and when their E.T.A. was up, bombed on that. The Squadron Navigation Officer subsequently re-plotted his whole log and found that they had been ‘spot-on’ the target. Such was the ability and experience of Tony and his crew.
When his tour was finally over and he had a well-deserved D.F.C. to his credit he was posted away to some hush-hush job at an aerodrome on Salisbury Plain, and both the Mess and B Flight Office were the poorer and less colourful for his going.
My final meeting with him before my posting and his shockingly unexpected and untimely death was a few weeks after he had left the Squadron at the end of his tour. He appeared one day, cheerful and unchanged as ever, in the anteroom one lunchtime. He had flown up,
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unofficially, one guessed, in a small, twin-engined trainer. He was, he told us, flying all sorts of kites, at all sorts of heights, mostly over the Channel. He alleged that ‘they’, whoever they might be, and he did nothing to enlighten us on that, even wanted him to fly inverted on occasions. Beyond that he said nothing, and we did not ask him too many questions. He mentioned that although he had flown up to see us in the Oxford, one of the several aircraft at the secret establishment, he would have preferred something else – “I wanted to come in the Walrus”, he chuckled, naming an antiquated and noisy single-pusher-engined flying boat, usually operated by the Fleet Air Arm.
“I’d love to have taxied up to the Watch Office and chucked the anchor out!”
He left us after a cheerful lunch and went for ever out of my life, for which I am greatly the poorer.
It seems that he came back to 12, without a crew, for a second tour and was insistent on taking part in the first 1,000 bomber raid, that on Cologne, with a completely new crew. His was the first aircraft to be shot down that night. It happened over the outskirts of Amsterdam. How he came to be there will always remain a mystery to me, as the route planned for that night to Cologne lay over the estuary of the Scheldt, mush [sic] further south, its numerous islands providing invaluable pinpoints.
He and all his crew are buried in beautifully tended graves in a shady part of Amsterdam’s New Eastern Cemetery, which I have several times visited.
On one visit to Amsterdam I had contacted a Dutchman who had formed part of the team of volunteers who had excavated the remains of C-Charlie, Tony’s aircraft on that fatal night in May 1942. I was able to visit the crash site in the suburb of Badhoevedorp. A small museum of remembrance had been created in some old underground fortifications on the outskirts of the city where were reverently displayed several small identifiable components of the aircraft, as well as one or two pathetic personal belongings of the crew. I was offered, and accepted, a small section of the geodetic construction of the Wellington and this now has a place of honour in my living room, where Tony, from his portrait, appears to be looking down upon it.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Mind you don’t scratch the paint [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] MIND YOU DON’T SCRATCH THE PAINT [/underlined]
After what happened that night to his beloved Z-Zebra when we, for the first and only time, were being allowed to fly it on ops, I could have quite understood if Tony had never wanted to have anything to do with me, or with any of the crew, again.
But instead, after it was all over, for some time afterwards, whenever he happened to see me in the anteroom there would come into his eyes a gleam of what I could only interpret as amusement, but something more besides; this was a look of amusement mingled with a knowledge and appreciation of our good fortune, the look which perhaps a proud parent gives to his offspring as he sees him emerge from the last obstacle of a tricky course in the school sports and run triumphantly towards the finishing line, a “by-God-you’ve-done-it” look. A fanciful idea maybe, but the more I look back on it, the more I am sure that was what it was.
It was when we had already done a handful of ops, I remember, and when he himself must have been well on towards finishing his tour – remarkable enough in itself – and quite some while after the events which led to his, and our, final trip in ‘Z’ that he caught my eye and beckoned me over, one day when there was no flying, in the mess at Binbrook. He and I were both standing among the small crowd of aircrew officers near the fireplace, tankards in our hands, nearly all of us smoking, under the gaze of the portrait of Donald Garland, V.C., and of the fox’s mask mounted on its wooden shield.
And when I had made my way towards him he paid me a great and surprising compliment, he who was without doubt one of the finest of the many fine pilots on the Squadron.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
But the story, of course, starts some time before that, when we were very much the new boys, before I and the rest of the crew had been blooded on ops. When we had arrived on the Squadron from our Operational Training Unit at Bassingbourn, Elmer, my co-pilot,
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had been allocated to Mike Duder’s crew, while the rest of us had been taken over, as it were, by Ralph, a pilot who had a few ops already to his credit. We settled down comfortably enough with him and went through the final stages of our familiarisation and training on the Mark II Wellington in preparation for our first operation together. This landmark in one’s flying career was something which I, at any rate, had looked forward to – if that is the correct form of words – with a mixture of curiosity, awe and a certain degree of apprehension tinged with excitement; I regarded it as a large step into a completely unknown world. Just how hazardous a step it would turn out to be I was soon to discover.
At that time, my logbook tells me, we had no aircraft which we could really regard as our own, perhaps because we were a fresher crew, I don’t know. However, we had flown seven different aircraft since joining ‘B’ Flight. One morning we reported as usual, to the Flights. I had the privilege of using, along with others, Abey’s, our Flight Commander’s, office as a sort of mini-crewroom. It was late November and we sat around talking, shop mostly, until about ten o’clock, when Abey’s phone rang. All conversation stopped. We knew what it would be – either another stand-down, or a target. It was a target, for freshers only. It would not be named until briefing that afternoon, of course, but I was fairly certain it would be one of the French Channel ports.
Abey nodded to me pleasantly and said, “Let the rest of your crew know, will you?” Then he looked quickly at the blackboard fixed to the wall facing him and said, “Look, I think you’d better take Z-Zebra, Tony’s aircraft – he’s off to Buck House tomorrow to collect his gong from the King.”
Tony Payne wasn’t in the Flight Office at the time, I suppose he had been told by Abey that he wouldn’t be required in any case; an appointment with His Majesty would naturally take priority over anything. So it was lunchtime when we’d done our quite uneventful night flying test on ‘Z’, that I saw him in the Mess. Or rather, that he saw me, and made a bee-line for me.
“What’s this I hear, then?” he asked.
I grinned at him.
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“You mean about Z-Zebra?”
“Yes, I mean about Z-Zebra. My Z-Zebra. You’re not actually going to fly my kite, are you? On ops? God!”
There was a look of mock-horror on his face.
“Well, that’s what Abey said, so that’s what we’re doing. Don’t worry, Tony, we won’t bend it, or anything.”
“Bend it? You’d better not! If you so much as scratch the paint I shall deal with you all personally, one at a time, when you come back, you mark my words!”
We both knew he was kidding, but I knew, too, that ‘Z’ was the apple of Tony’s eye and that it had served him well. I hoped that it would serve as [sic] well, too.
Briefing was in the early afternoon. I cannot recall that there were many of us there, three crews at most is my recollection. The target was Cherbourg docks, time on target 2100 to 2130, bomb-load seven five hundred pounders, high explosive, route Base – Reading – Bognor Regis – target and return the same way. I felt nothing other than curious anticipation, once the time of take-off drew nearer. I think the thought that we were in ‘Z’ boosted my morale. Tony’s aircraft must be good, for he was good, the best. That followed; ‘Z’ wouldn’t let us down. The trip was going to be, if not the proverbial piece of cake, then quite O.K., quite straightforward, a nice one to start us off, of that I was confident.
It was a Saturday evening and dusk was falling as I went up to the Flights and opened my locker in Abey’s office. He was there, of course, looking quietly on at the small handful of us putting on our kit for the op. I started to struggle into my flying kit. Roll-necked sweater under my tunic, brown padded inner suit from neck to ankle, like a tightly fitting eiderdown, old school scarf, which, while I would never have admitted it, was my good-luck talisman. Pale green, slightly faded canvas outer flying suit with fur collar, wool-lined leather flying boots, parachute harness, Mae West and, lastly, ‘chute and helmet, which I carried. I checked that I had the issued silk handkerchief, printed very finely with a map of France, just in case, and I touched the reassuring small miniature compass,
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sewn into my brevet, another aid to evasion if forced to bale out.
I joined Ralph and the lads in the hangar. There was a continuous buzz of conversation, the odd burst of laughter. Ralph was smiling with rather forced cheerfulness, no doubt wondering how his new crew would cope. Col, our Aussie Observer, looked more sallow than usual and was chewing gum rapidly. His Australian twang, when he spoke, was more pronounced, it seemed to me. Mick, the wireless op., looked worried, as usual, and said nothing, while Tommy, our rear gunner, was completely unconcerned and grinning from ear to ear. Johnnie, who would occupy the front turret, was his calm and quite imperturbable self, almost, I realised, the complete antithesis of Tommy.
Ralph said quickly, “Let’s go, then,” and we strolled out of the chilly, pale blue lighting of the hangar into the darkness. We climbed awkwardly into the waiting crew-bus parked on the perimeter track. A half moon was beginning to show, flitting in and out of the scattered clouds which were drifting out to sea from off the Lincolnshire Wolds. It was cold, and despite my flying kit, I shivered a little. Col was still chewing stolidly, his face expressionless. There was a little desultory conversation as the bus rolled towards the dispersals, but the night’s op was not mentioned.
“Z-Zebra,” called the W.A.A.F. driver through the little window at the front of the bus. We started to clamber stiffly down the back steps, reluctant to leave the companionable shelter of the vehicle.
“Have a good trip!”
Someone from another crew shouted the conventional but oddly reassuring words, which were invariably used to send a crew on their way.
“You too,” one of us replied.
Z-Zebra loomed over us in the semi-darkness. The crew bus rumbled away. The silence was intense, almost tangible. The ground-crew stood around, blowing on their hands and beating their arms around their bodies against the cold. There were muted greetings. Col and I walked several yards away from the kite, lit cigarettes from my case and took a dozen or so quick draws before stamping them out.
“Come on, let’s get started,” I muttered, and we clambered up the red ladder which jutted down from Z’s nose. Johnnie was handing
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the pigeon in its ventilated box carefully up to Mick.
We struggled in, heavily and clumsily, each to his position. I hoisted myself over the main spar and stood in the astrodome, reaching down to plug in my intercom lead, and I found the hot-air hose, aiming it to blow on to my body once the engines had been started. The port engine suddenly stammered and roared into life, then the starboard. We heard Ralph blow twice into his mike to test the intercom, then he spoke.
“Everyone O.K? Harry?”
“O.K., skip,” I said.
“Col?”
“Yeah, skip.”
“Mick?”
O.K.”
“Johnnie?”
“O.K., skipper.” Johnnie was always punctilious and correct.
“Tommy? All right at the back there?”
“Yes, fine, skip.”
“Right, I’ll take it there and do the bombing run, Harry, you can bring us back.”
“O.K., skip,” I said.
Ralph’s mike clicked off. There was an increased roar from the port enging, [sic] shaking the whole kite, then from the starboard, as Ralph ran them up, checking the power, the magnetos, the oil pressure and the engine temperatures. The kite was shivering like a nervous racehorse at the starting gate, waiting for the off. A lull, then I felt a lurch as we moved slowly out of dispersal. The hangars, topped by their red obstruction lights, slid by, then we were at the end of the runway in use. Behind us I could see the nav. lights of the other aircraft which were to share the night sky with us over Cherbourg. A green Alldis light flashed directly on to us – dah, dah, di-di, - Z.
“You’ve got your green, skipper,” I said. We were on our way.
“O.K., here we go, hold on to your hats.”
Johnnie appeared alongside me and grinned rather wolfishly; the front
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gunner went into his turret only when we were safely airborne. Ralph opened up the throttles against the brakes to lift the tail a little. Z-Zebra jerked and strained, then suddenly we surged forward, the engines howling. The Drem lighting of the flarepath smudged past, faster and faster as we charged down the runway. The bar of lights with the two goose-neck flares at the far end slid towards us, then suddenly all vibration ceased; we were airborne, we were on our way.
Johnnie gave me the thumbs-up and vanished up front to go into his turret. In a few seconds he called up to say he was in position. I felt and heard Ralph throttling back to settle into the long climb to operational height; we would aim to be at 20,000 feet over the target. He began a turn to port to bring us back over the centre of the aerodrome to set course accurately for Reading.
The night was clear, some cloud showing vaguely out to sea, a blaze of stars everywhere, with the half moon as yet low on the port beam. There were several flashing red beacons to be seen, scattered over the dim landscape like lurid and sinister fireflies, but no-one bothered to read their Morse letters on the way out; coming home, it would be another matter, they would be looked for and read as eagerly as one used to read the familiar names on railway stations on the way back from a holiday. From the astrodome the mainplanes were pale in the faint moonlight, the exhaust stubs glowed redly. The rudder was a tall finger behind us, under which sat Tommy in his turret, a lonely place. I could see the guns rotating from side to side as he kept watch. There was little sensation of height or speed as the engines roared steadily under climbing power, the passage of time seemed suspended and there was a sense of complete detachment from the earth and from all things on it. Conversation was limited to the essential minimum.
Ralph came up, eventually, on the intercom.
“Oxygen on, please, Harry, ten thousand feet.”
I acknowledged, unplugged my intercom and left my position, going forward over the main spar to where just behind the Observer’s compartment the oxygen bottles were in racks up on the port side of the
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fuselage. I screwed open the valves on each one and returned to the astrodome.
“Oxygen on, skipper.”
I plugged in the bayonet fitting of my oxygen tube to the nearest socket and clipped the mask on my helmet securely to cover my nose and mouth. After a while, “Glow on the deck, dead ahead, skipper,” Johnnie said. I went forward quickly to stand beside Ralph.
“Looks like Reading,” I said, “they always did have a lousy blackout. See those two lines of lights? The railway station. Wouldn’t that slay you? I don’t know how they don’t get bombed to hell.”
“Useful for us, anyhow,” Ralph replied, “we’re dead on track and two minutes to E.T.A., too. Good for you, Col,” he called.
The faint glow of Reading vanished under the nose. The moon was a bit higher now. Col gave the new course for Bognor. I took a deep breath of oxygen and holding it in my lungs as long as I could, went back to the astrodome. Tommy spoke up, rather fractiously.
“Bloody cold back here.”
“Shut up a minute, Tommy,” I heard Mick say, “I’m listening out to Group.”
No-one spoke for a while. Then I caught a glimpse of a white flashing beacon to starboard. These were very useful; Observers kept a list of them coded with their actual Latitude and Longitude positions. I switched on my mike.
“Occult flashing R Robert about five miles to starboard, Col,” I said.
Then, “That’s peculiar,” I thought, “I didn’t hear my own voice saying that.”
I checked my intercom switch and repeated what I’d said. Still nothing. I moved over to the intercom point at the flarechute and plugged in. I blew into my mike – dead as mutton. Taking a gulp of oxygen I went forward to Col’s desk and banged him on the shoulder. He looked up in surprise. I undid his helmet and shouted in his ear.
“Is your intercom working?”
He thumbed the switch and I saw his lips moving. Then he shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“Bloody thing’s crook,” he shouted.
After another gulp of oxygen I went forward to yell in Ralph’s ear.
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“Intercom’s u/s!”
I saw Ralph check his mike, then he nodded, the corners of his mouth turned down ruefully.
“Not a sausage,” he shouted, “see if Mick can fix it.”
I pushed through the door into Mick’s compartment. He beat me to it.
“Intercom’s u/s, R/T, too.”
“See if you can fix it!”
Mick nodded.
I went forward again to Ralph, who had scribbled a note on a message pad.
‘If no joy in 15 min. we jettison and abort.’
Without the intercom we would be completely cut off from one another, an impossible situation. I settled into the second pilot’s position alongside Ralph, thinking that I might as well stay up front for a while. Ralph was writing something again, letting the trimmers fly the aircraft while he did so.
‘Tell the gunners,’ I read, and gave him the thumbs-up. More oxygen, then I ducked under the instrument panel, past the bomb-sight, treading gingerly on the bottom escape hatch, and quickly opened the front turret doors.
My God, I thought, it’s freezing cold in here.
Johnnie twisted himself round and looked at me questioningly.
“Intercom’s gone for a Burton,” I shouted, “we may have to scrub it.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded.
Half way back down the fuselage I saw the rear turret doors opening and Tommy emerged, slightly red in the face.
“My bloody intercom’s u/s,” he shouted, looking aggrieved.
I told him the situation quickly and he went back into his turret. I bent over Mick, who was fiddling with the intricacies of the radio equipment.
“Any joy?” I shouted.
Mick grimaced and shook his head.
“Keep trying, Mick.”
When I went back to Ralph he leaned over and shouted, “If Mick can’t fix it by Bognor, we’ll jettison ten miles out to sea and go home.”
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I wrote a note for Col and passed it to him. I was already hoarse with shouting and tired from moving around the aircraft on scanty oxygen.
Still we climbed. Bognor was now below us, I could distinguish the shape of the south coast, the Isle of Wight. Col came forward and made book-opening movements of his hands to Ralph who nodded and selected the bomb-door switch to ‘open’. Col ducked down to the bombsight. I wondered idly whether there were any convoys below; even though the bombs would be dropped ‘safe’ they wouldn’t like five hundred pounds of solid metal from this height. There was a slight shudder as the bombs went. Col came back.
“Bloody waste,” he shouted.
Ralph nodded as he closed the bomb-doors.
He shouted to me, “We might as well get down lower where we can come off oxygen. Get a course from Col, will you?”
I did so and set it on the compass for Ralph, who did a wide turn to port, losing height steadily. The altimeter slowly unwound.
When we passed through ten thousand feet I turned off the bottles and went the rounds of the crew, telling each one we were on the way home. Their reactions were muted, impassive. Soon we were down to two thousand feet, droning over the dim November landscape. There were no beacons to be seen anywhere in this area. I stood alongside Ralph, wondering if I would get a chance to fly ‘Z’ soon, but perhaps he didn’t like the thought of passing messages himself; the journey from front turret to rear, for example, was a bit of an obstacle race.
Quite suddenly, I noticed that the starboard engine temperature was up. I tapped Ralph on the arm and pointed to it. He nodded slowly, we droned onwards. I looked out of my side window, through the arc of the propeller, mere inches away, at the starboard engine. Was it my imagination, or was there a whitish mist streaming back from it? Ralph had levelled off at a thousand feet. Col came in and handed him a note of E.TA. Reading. The starboard engine temperature was higher, and now the oil pressure was decidedly down, too.
We’ve got trouble, damn it, I thought, and I saw there was now
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no doubt at all about the trail of vapour from the engine.
“Looks like a glycol leak,” I told Ralph, who stared grimly ahead and nodded. Then he turned to me.
“Get Mick on the W/T to base, returning early, intercom and R/T u/s, glycol leak starboard engine.”
I gave him the thumbs-up, seized a message pad and wrote it down, then went aft and handed it to Mick, who was sitting glumly at his table. He looked at the note, raised his eyebrows and frowned, then started to tap out the message on the Morse key.
Up front again I saw that the vapour leak from the engine was now streaked with red, and angry looking sparks were flying back over the engine nacelle and the trailing edge of the mainplane. I nudged Ralph, who leaned over to look, then grimaced. Now, the engine temperature was very high and the oil pressure had slumped even further. Z-Zebra was in real trouble. As is the way in flying, events thereafter moved in a downward spiral from bad to desperate with sickening rapidity. A lick of flame spat out of the engine, over the starboard mainplane, then horrifyingly, like the tail of a rocket, the flame shot back towards the rear turret.
“Fire!” I yelled in Ralph’s ear.
I pressed the extinguisher button on the instrument panel. Ralph chopped the starboard throttle back and hauled the wheel over to counteract the lurch and swing. I looked at the flames which were now pouring out of the duff engine, over the cowling and the trailing edge of the mainplane. Suddenly Tommy appeared at my side.
“Hey! There’s a hell of a lot of sparks flying past my turret!”
“Yes, we’re on fire, but we’re trying to get it out,” I shouted back at him.
Tommy’s eyes opened wide when he saw the blazing engine.
“Jesus bloody Christ,” he said, in awe.
We were now below 1000 feet. Ralph had opened up the port engine to try to maintain height, but we were turning slowly to starboard the whole time. I thought about the best part of 375 gallons of petrol in the starboard wing-tank, then about the western edge of London and its balloon barrage, somewhere very close to us. We
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were in one hell of a mess, I thought, and it began to dawn on me that the situation could well kill us all. I tried not to think too hard about that. Ralph was wrestling with Z-Zebra, trying to keep it on some sort of a course, but it appeared to be useless.
“Poop off some reds,” he yelled, “and look out for a flarepath!”
I hurried aft.
“Put the I.F.F. on Stud 3,” I shouted to Mick, above the howl of the good engine, and nodding glumly, Mick switched to this distress frequency which would show up as a distinctively shaped trace on all ground radar sets. I quickly found some double-red Verey cartridges and got the signal pistol down from its fixture in the roof of the fuselage. I loaded the cartridges and shot them off one at a time.
“Can’t do much more now,” I said to myself, and hoped for the sight of a flarepath, a directing searchlight, or anything that would help us. I went forward again. We were still losing height and I realised that we were too low to bale out. But the fire had died down and I sighed with relief at that. The prop windmilled slowly and uselessly. I wished that Z-Zebra had been fitted with propeller feathering devices, but it was useless wishing thoughts like that. I peered intently at the starboard wing; there didn’t seem to be any fire there, thank God, otherwise we would simply blow up in mid-air and that would be that. Now, the immediate problem was how we were going to get back on to the ground in approximately one piece; there wasn’t a flarepath or a beacon to be seen anywhere.
I felt completely helpless and at the mercy of a capricious and malignant fate which I could do nothing to influence. It was like being in a paper bag going down a waterfall. Ralph’s face was grim as he struggled to keep straight and to maintain altitude. I heaved a length of wrapped elastic from my parachute stowage and tied the wheel fully over to the left, to take the load off Ralph a little. He nodded his thanks. Another length of elastic; I tied the rudder bar over to the geodetics. That was all I could do.
I looked out again. Still no sign of friendly lights and the treetops were looking damned close now. The port engine exhaust stubs were bright red due to the punishment the engine was taking and I knew it was just a matter of minutes before we hit something. I thought, “This is a hell of a shaky do.” Then, ahead, I saw an interruption in the dark skyline and I was puzzled as to what it
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could be. I took a glance as [sic] the A.S.I., just under 100 m.p.h., much too near stalling speed for comfort. I hardly dared look at the altimeter, it showed a mere 200 feet now. The curious, dim outlines on the skyline grew slowly larger as we staggered on. That was about it, Z-Zebra was simply staggering along and sinking through the air, almost on the point of stalling, when we would drop like a stone. I was holding the wheel over to port, helping Ralph all I could. Keep height and we lost speed; keep speed and we lost height. That was the quite hopeless situation.
The jagged skyline, which was now beginning to fill the windscreen, resolved itself horrifyingly, in the dim moonlight, into buildings. A town, and worst of all, a town with a tall, thick chimney, dead ahead.
“Jesus Christ,” I thought, “we’ve bloody well had it now, we’re going to hit that bloody chimney.”
100 feet on the altimeter. Now we were over the town, churning over the roofs at 90 miles an hour. The streets looked so close that I could have put out a hand to touch them. The chimney loomed nearer, the black roofs skated away behind us, apparently just below the floor of the fuselage. I thought of the people in those houses, cringing as they heard the hideous noise just above their heads, praying that the aircraft wouldn’t hit them in a cataclysm of bricks, rubble and blazing petrol. I was sweating as I frantically heaved at the wheel to try to help Ralph. His eyes were staring as though he were hypnotised by the sight of the chimney. With agonising slowness it slid towards us, slightly to starboard now, it seemed, then just beyond the starboard wingtip, a handful of yards away. I shut my eyes for a second, hardly daring to believe that we had missed it.
“Thank Christ for that!” I yelled at Ralph. We were over open fields again. Ralph shouted desperately, “I’ll have to put it down soon, get them into crash positions!”
I hurried to the front turret, collected Johnnie, who was as pleasant and imperturbable as though he was sitting in an armchair in the Mess. he would have had a grandstand view of the whole thing, up to now. Together, we grabbed Mick and Col. The three of them lay on the floor of the fuselage, hands clasped behind their necks.
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I hurried, stumbling, to the rear turret and wrenched open the doors.
“Crash landing, any minute now!” I yelled at Tommy. He would sit tight, his was the safest place in the kite in this situation. I almost envied him. I rushed forward again and took a final glance out of the windscreen. We were at treetop level. Then I went back to join Mick, Col and Johnnie. There was not enough room for me to lie down, so I stood sideways on, taking a firm grip on the geodetics, and hoped for the best.
Suddenly the port engine was throttled right back. This was it, I thought. A few seconds’ silence, which seemed like a month, then a tremendous impact. A cool smell of newly-torn earth filled the aircraft. I hear, unbelievably, a long burst of machine gun fire and could see red tracer flying ahead of us. I couldn’t think what was going on; surely we weren’t being shot at? The kite bucketed along, everything twisting and grinding, the deceleration fantastic. I could hardly stay upright. The smell of ploughed earth was beautiful, almost intoxicating. I hung on grimly, and after what seemed an age, we finally lurched to a halt. For an instant there was total, blissful silence.
“Everyone out, quick!” I shouted.
The three of them hurried forward where I could see Ralph’s legs vanishing through the escape hatch above the pilot’s seat. Tommy came staggering from the rear of the fuselage, clutching his forehead.
“You O.K.?” I asked him.
“Hit me bloody head on some broken sodding geodetics,” he said angrily.
“Hurry up and get out in case the bloody kite goes up,” I said urgently, and I pushed him forward, ahead of me. He climbed out of the top hatch via the pilot’s seat; I was hard on his heels. I could hear Johnnie telling someone, in his clear, modulated voice, that he had forgotten to put the safety-catch of his guns on to ‘safe’, the impact of the crash had set them firing. I hoped vaguely that no-one had been hurt. It was years later that I learned that one bullet had gone through a child’s bedroom window as her mother was putting her to bed; the bullet had embedded itself in the mattress without harming the little girl.
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I followed Tommy up and out. I was swinging my legs over the edge of the escape hatch, on to the top of Z-Zebra, when I saw a spurt of flame from the port engine. The strain had been too much for it.
“Port engine’s on fire!” I shouted to them, “get to hell out of it!”
I jumped back inside the cockpit, quickly found the port fire-extinguisher button and jabbed my thumb hard on it, swearing softly under my breath. Then I clambered out again, found the port mainplane under my feet and walked down it on to the field.
The aircraft looked like a landed whale, its props bent grotesquely backwards, its back dismally broken, with the rudder towering up at an odd angle, its wings now spread uselessly across the stubble and the broad rut which we had gouged out of the field trailing back towards the hedge, between some tall trees. The crew were grouped together twenty yards away.
“Come on, Harry!” someone shouted.
A man was running over the field towards us, I could see the steam of his panting breaths in the moonlight as he got nearer and heard him excitedly saying something about ‘the biggest field in the district’. The moon shone palely through the trees which we had missed and the air was sweet as wine. I lit a cigarette and joined the others.
“Are you O.K.?” Col asked. I nodded.
“Bloody fine landing, Ralph,” I said, “damn good show.”
We followed the man over the stubble, towards the broken hedge, then to an Auxiliary Fire Station on the outskirts of St. Albans, where we had come down.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Look,” Tony said confidentially, “you know I’ve got …… as my co-pilot?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what was coming next.
“Well, between you and me, I’m really not all that happy with him. Would you like to come into my crew? I can fix it with Abey, if you would.”
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When I recovered from my astonishment it didn’t take me long to decide. I shook my head.
“No, thanks, Tony, no, really, I wouldn’t want to leave my own crew, you know.”
“Oh, well, I can quite understand that. I just thought - . But if you do change your mind, there’s a place for you with me, any time.”
I thanked him. I have never forgotten the honour he did me.
As I have said, Tony took the wrecking of Z-Zebra quite well, all things being considered. Shortly afterwards, he finished his tour. His crew were posted away, while he himself went on to some hush-hush flying, somewhere on Salisbury Plain, we heard, involving several different types of aircraft. It was something, we guessed, in connection with the development of radar and its applications. He paid us a visit once, in an Anson.
“I wanted to come up in a Walrus,” he said, naming a slow, noisy and out-of-date small flying-boat, “and throw out the anchor in front of the Watch Office!”
We had a jocular half hour with him in front of the ante-room fire.
Tony Payne came back to the Squadron for his second tour of ops. He took a new crew, on their first trip, on the Thousand Bomber raid on Cologne. His was the first aircraft to be shot down that night. He was hit by flak over Ijmuiden, on the Dutch Coast and the aircraft blew up over Badhoevedorp, on the outskirts of Amsterdam, killing him and the whole crew. They are buried together in a beautiful shady spot in Amsterdam East Cemetery, their graves lovingly kept and cared for. I have visited the place where they fell; I have seen the place where they now lie at peace. Most of the aircraft was salvaged recently by some caring Dutch people, and I have a fragment of it on my bookshelf, to remind me of the man that was Tony. Not that I need much reminding.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Rabbie [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] RABBIE [/underlined]
He was the sort of bloke one took to automatically if one was of a fairly quiet disposition, for he himself was quiet almost to the point of being self-effacing. On the ground, that is. But in the air – well, that was another matter. On the evidence that I had, at least, it seemed that another side of his nature took over.
In build, he was perhaps an inch or so taller than me, well made, with rather thick, limp, fairish hair, quite piercingly blue eyes and a mobile mouth which always carried the trace of a smile, as though he were laughing inwardly at some secret joke. His manner of speaking was strange until you got used to it; he would start a sentence then lower his eyes almost apologetically, as though he were afraid you were becoming bored with what he was saying. His voice was quite deep, very quiet, and his utterances were staccato, like short bursts of machine-gun fire, punctuated by little nervous laughs, almost sniggers. Now and again he would stammer slightly, and now and again a trace of his native soft Scots accent would ripple the surface of his halting, quietly spoken sentences.
It was I who first called him Rabbie, on account of this inflexion of voice, which, when he became animated, would show more prominently. I think he secretly rather liked the name; there weren’t many Scotsmen on the Squadron as far as I knew, and certainly, there weren’t many in ‘B’ Flight. We became friendly, and although on stand-down trips to G.Y., as we invariably called Grimsby, crews usually went as crews, on nights when we stayed in the Mess he and I, more often than not, would gravitate together, along with Eric. Possible because the three of us where a shade quieter types than, say, Tony or Teddy Bairstow.
I don’t know how it came about that I flew to Pershore with him – he had done his O.T.U. there, it seemed, and on a stand-down day he got permission from Abey to do a cross-country there. He must have asked me if I would like a ride; anyhow, I went along with him. He had his own co-pilot, Sandy, with him, and his crew. It was then I discovered the other side of Rabbie. I had only been on the Squadron a fortnight and everything was new and a bit strange.
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Rabbie and most of the others were comparatively old hands, and whereas I was a strictly-by-the-book pilot, I soon found that there were others who weren’t. Like that day, when I flew with Rabbie. One normally did cross-countries at a sober and sedate height, say between two and six thousand feet. Perhaps for a few minutes, now and again, one might have a crazy fit and beat up a train or something or other, but unauthorised low flying was a Court Martial offence, and all pilots had been repeatedly warned of that fact ever since they started flying at E.F.T.S.
We went off in Barred C, Abey’s own aircraft, and once we’d cleared the circuit, quite simply, it was a hundred feet maximum all the way. To begin with, I was shaken rigid, I’d never known anything quite like it; such sustained, hair-raising excitement, spiced with the occasional bad fright. Trees, villages, hills, hedges, they all streamed by; very little was said among the crew. When I’d collected my scattered wits and realised that this was second nature to all of them, I began to enjoy it a little more. We landed at Pershore, Rabbie said hello to one or two old friends, we lunched, took off again and came back at the same height, all the way. I was getting used to it by this time, but I still swallowed hard once or twice.
When we had landed and taxied in I came down the ladder after most of them. Rabbie and the crew were doing what we usually did then, taking off helmets, sorting out the navigation stuff, looking for some transport back to the Flights. As we lit cigarettes, and with his little secret smile, Rabbie said to me, “Enjoy it?”
“Rabbie,” I said to him, “excuse me for asking, but do you always do your cross-countries at nought feet?”
He gave his little sniggering laugh and looked down.
“Well, no,” he said softly, “but you have to let your hair down now and again.”
Some of it must have rubbed off on Sandy, too, except that he gave himself a bad fright. It really could have been quite a shaky do. Several of us were in ‘B’ Flight office one afternoon, doing nothing in particular. We had a couple of kites on, that night,
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but most of us had been stood down too late to go into G.Y. The phone rang and Abey answered it, his face, as usual, giving nothing away. He looked across at the blackboard as he listened and our eyes followed his, wondering.
“That’s right, E-Edward,” he said, and rang off.
The board said, ‘E’ – Sgt. Sanders – Local flying – airborne 1420.’
“We’d better go and see this,” Abey said calmly, straightening a few things on his desk, “Sandy may be in a bit of bother, it appears that he’s hit something south of here. He’s coming in now.”
We piled into the Flight van and hared out to dispersal. Just then, we saw ‘E’ land, quite a reasonable one, too. We breathed again. Then, as we waited, he taxied in and we could see that where the port half of his windscreen had been there was just a jagged hole. The air-intake on his port engine looked peculiar, too, it was half bunged up with something greyish. Sandy stopped in his dispersal and cut the engines. The ladder came down and he climbed down it a bit tentatively, looking decidedly sheepish when he saw the reception committee.
He and Abey talked rather quietly together while the crew climbed down and stood around, fiddling with their ‘chutes and navigation stuff, surreptitiously brushing what looked very like feathers from off themselves and trying to look unconcerned. Someone who had overheard the conversation muttered, “Been low-flying over the Wash and hit a bunch of seagulls.” We grinned at [sic] bit at that, once we knew they were all O.K. Abey’s poker face said nothing as he turned away from Sandy. Then someone nearby said, “Hey, Sandy, what’s wrong with your face?” and when we looked closely we could see a piece of pink seagull flesh sticking to his cheek. Sandy put a hand up to his face, then had a look at what he had collected. Slowly, his eyes rolled up, his knees buckled and he fell at our feet in a dead faint. Abey, good type that he was, hushed it all up.
Not long afterwards, a handful of our kites went as part of a smallish force to attack one of the north German ports. It might have been Emden. Rabbie was on it; I wasn’t. Next morning, after breakfast, Teddy put his head around the door of the ante-room, his eyes starting out of his thin, pale face.
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“Hey!” he exclaimed, “You want to have a look at Rabbie’s kite, he’s had a right shaky do!”
He tore off out, to tell someone else. Quickly, we made our way up to the Flights. ‘E’ was parked right outside ‘B’ Flight hangar, and most of the starboard mainplane out board of the engine just wasn’t there. The wing finished in a ragged, twisted jumble of geodetics. Obviously, they had had a very narrow escape indeed from a burst of flak. I climbed aboard. The wheel was tied over to port with a chunk of rope. I found Rabbie, poking idly about at this and that.
“Dodging the photographic bod,” he said with an apologetic grin. There was one of the photographic section erks outside now, fussing about with a camera, taking pictures of ‘E’. Rabbie looked paler than usual, thoughtful.
“How the hell did you manage to get it back like this?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, with his nervous little snigger, “it wasn’t too b-bad, Sandy and I tied the wheel over a bit,” and nodded towards it.
The photo erk had gone and the sightseers had thinned out to two or three. I climbed out, chatting to Rabbie, but as we talked, I could see something different. There was something in his eyes that I’d never seen there before, a distant, almost other-worldly expression.
When I left the Squadron I lost touch with everyone, including, at times, myself. It was a long time afterwards, and I was talking to Eric on the telephone. We had reached the “Do you remember” and “What happened to” stage.
“By the way,” I asked him, “what ever happened to Rabbie?”
“Rabbie?” Eric replied, “Oh, I’m afraid he was shot down, you know.”
It had happened near the Dutch town of Beverwijk. Rabbie had finished up as a P.o.W with Eric and Abey, then had been repatriated on account of injuries to his hands, Eric said. Some of his crew had been killed.
In June 1989 a Dutch air-war historian took me to a beautifully-kept cemetery in the small town of Bergen, near Alkmaar, to visit the graves of a contemporary crew of ‘B’ Flight whom I had known.
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As I was turning to leave, my eye, quite by chance, noticed another name on a nearby tombstone, one which I immediately recognised, that of our Commanding Officer, who had gone missing while I was with the Squadron. Very near to him and to the others was yet another familiar name, that of Sandy.
Each name of all the aircrew, some 200 of them, who are buried there, is inscribed upon the bells of the local church, just across the way. One of the bells is perpetually silent, representing those who could not be identified. And one bell bears the inscription – “I sound for those who fell for freedom.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Letter home [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LETTER HOME [/underlined]
I wonder how many premonitions the average person has during his or her lifetime. It’s not the sort of topic which crops up very much in normal conversation, so I don’t think it can happen all that often. But when it does, and you believe you are being given a glimpse of the future, it can be quite weird and rather frightening. So far, I can recall three instances personally. One was at a very long interval of time, one was just the opposite, while the third - . That is what the letter home was about.
A week or two ago I was watching a debate from the House of Commons on television. There was a fairly sparse attendance, the subject became rather mundane and my attention, frankly, was beginning to wander. I looked along the green leather seats where the numerous absentees would normally have sat. Surely, I thought, surely seats like those had played some part in my life at some time?
Then I had it – they were the colour of the wooden-framed armchairs in the anteroom of the Mess at Binbrook. And I was immediately reminded of the first, and very strong, premonition I had had there, and was coping with, as I sat in one of those chairs, almost alone in the quiet room on that winter’s night, waiting to take off on a raid over Germany – and not expecting to come back.
Looking into my logbook now, I can narrow it down to one of four dates, but the actual date is of no importance. The premonition I had, though, was important, very important to me, very gradual, but extremely strong.
Abey, our Flight Commander in ‘B’ Flight was, in every sense of the word, a gentleman. He was then in charge of eight or ten crews of six men each which comprised ‘B’ Flight, and he had, among many other things, the responsibility of selecting crews under his command for any operations on any particular night, or day. Fortunately, the latter were scarce enough. Sometimes the choice was simple, if a maximum effort was called for by Command or Group, he simple sent everyone whose aircraft was serviceable. But sometimes
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he had to choose, and no-one envied him that, nor ever queried his choice. Querying things like that is something that happens in films, usually bad ones. If a “fresher” target was specified for the night’s operations then novice crews, who had done up to four of five ops were selected to go. If he had any choice at all, any crew due for leave went on leave, that same morning. He did his job well and fairly; he was a very considerate man.
On the day of which I write, our crew had done three trips, one of which had had an abrupt and near-catastrophic ending. A “fresher” was called for that night, so we were “on”, in S for Sugar. I have been wondering, recounting this, trying to remember what my reactions were during the time of an op, from the first knowledge that I was going, that night, to some unknown target, whose location and identity would not be known until briefing that afternoon, until the moment after one’s return, sitting down thankfully, tired and strained, into a chair, with a mug of coffee and rum in one hand and a cigarette in the other, for interrogation after the trip. When we would look around the room to see who was seated at the other tables with the Intelligence Officers, recounting their stories of the night’s experiences. However, although I readily confess that not a single trip went by when I was not to some extent frightened, quite often very frightened indeed, my first reaction on being told that I was among those who were on that night’s operations was one of intense excitement, of being immediately strung up to a very high pitch, reactions accelerated beyond their normal speed, like those of a sprinter on his starting blocks, alert for the sound of the pistol which will launch him on his rapid way.
We did our night flying test in S for Sugar as soon as we knew we were operating that night. It was winter, but not too bad a winter until then. This particular morning was cold and cloudy with a breeze from the south-west, the odd spot of rain in the wind, a typical winter’s morning in Lincolnshire, in fact. We flew around for a while to test that everything in the aircraft was working properly, except for the bomb-release mechanism and the guns. We weren’t bombed up yet, of course, and we would test the guns over the sea once we were on our way that night. I was still quite strung up with excitement
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and anticipation. None of us thought or said very much about the target, it was bound to be one of the French Channel ports, the docks, or course, and they were reckoned to be a piece of cake – straight in from the sea, open the bomb doors, press the tit and then home, James.
Briefing was at 1430 hours. By that time the weather wasn’t so good. The cloudbase was down, the wind was getting up and it was colder. At briefing there was ourselves and a handful of others. The target wasn’t one of the Channel ports, it was Wilhelmshaven, on the north German coast, not what we had expected, and quite a tough target. Weather prospects were moderate to fairly poor, with a front coming across which we would have to contend with, a risk of icing. It didn’t sound all that funny. But there it was.
The excitement of the morning had worn off and I was beginning to feel a bit deflated when I went back to the Mess after briefing. There was nothing to be done until teatime, and takeoff was fairly late, to catch the late moon. About five hours to kill. As I thought about it like that I realised that the expression could be taken more than one way, and I didn’t like one way very much. I went back to my room with the sense of deflation sliding quickly downwards towards a feeling of depressive foreboding. It was not as though the target was the toughest one in the book, tough enough by any standards, but no long stretch of enemy territory to be crossed there and back. Not exactly, as we had thought, the reasonably easy one we had expected, but not as bad as it might have been. Or so I tried to tell myself.
The foreboding grew inside me the longer I sat in my room. I was alone; Frank Coles, my room-mate, was Squadron Signals Leader and usually had things to do even when the rest of us were free. Out of the window I could see that the weather was steadily worsening, which added to my unease. I sat there, smoking, and trying to read. It was useless. I became more and more certain that this trip was the one I wasn’t coming back from, that we were going to be shot down. Once I had arrived at that realisation I found I was almost able to visualise it happening; I had already seen it happen to others nearby. But tonight it was going to happen to us, and that would be the end of me.
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There was nothing I could do about it; I had to go through with it, it had to be faced. The only practical thing I should now see to was to write a letter home, to my parents. The trouble was that I had very little idea what I wanted to say to them. For several reasons, I felt they hadn’t had the time to get to know very much about me, as an individual. But still, I felt I owed them this letter.
So I wrote to them. It was a very short letter, I remember, but its exact contents I cannot recall. I know I started in the conventional way – “by the time you read this you will know I have been reported missing,” and so on, and I know that after I had addressed the envelope I added, “To be forwarded only in the event of my failing to return from an operation.”
By the time I had stewed over this wretched little piece of writing it was teatime. There was still no sign of Frank. I was glad of some company in the Mess, although there weren’t all that many in, with only the freshers operating. So I had tea. It was usually a high tea if there were ops on. On this evening, as on many others, there were kippers, toast and tea. Surprisingly, I found I was very hungry. I think I was determined to enjoy what was going to be my last meal. So I savoured every morsel. As dusk fell I stretched myself out in front of the roaring fire in an armchair in the anteroom to await the time to go up to the Flights to get dressed for the trip. The armchair had wooden arms and sides with a green leather padded seat and back.
Every time the tannoy went with some commonplace announcement that someone was wanted at his Flight or Section I would jump a little and stiffen when the W.A.A.F. said, “Attention, please, attention, please,” and then slump down again when I heard that it wasn’t ops being scrubbed. There weren’t many people in the anteroom, and as the fireplace was at one end and I was very close to it, I couldn’t really see who was in the room with me. I was concentrating on absorbing, I think, every scrap of physical comfort I could from the heat of the fire, in what I now firmly believed to be the last few dwindling hours of my life. I could hear sleet or snow spitting as it dropped down the chimney on to the fire.
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I was seeing all sorts of strange pictures in the glowing coals. What they were I didn’t know, faces mostly, it seemed, but whose, I couldn’t distinguish. I started as one of the Mess waiters drew the big curtains across the blacked-out windows. Seeing me in battledress and roll-necked sweater and knowing that I was “on”, he gave me a half-smile as he piled some more coal on to the fire. The heat on my legs died as he did so.
“Is it still sleeting?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered quietly, “still sleeting.”
Tactfully, he didn’t add “It’s a rotten night to be on ops,” or anything like that, but I knew that was what he was thinking. I nodded. He walked quietly away about his business and we left it at that. The wind was starting to get up quite a lot now. I could hear the slap of the sleet hitting the window like a wet cloth in the gusts. Surely they would scrub it? In an hour or so we were due to take off for Wilhelmshaven. I wondered what the weather was like over there, whether they were thinking that it was such a bad night that they were safe from R.A.F. raids. Then I thought about the letter. Was I being stupid? Was this all a lot of childish, hysterical nonsense, over-dramatising oneself? I still thought not; I was still convinced in my own mind.
Why did one write such things? I mused. It made no difference, really, to the outcome, someone would die, someone would be bereaved, that was all there was to it. I wondered how many people I knew actually wrote them, too. I suppose one reason for writing a last letter was to say a final goodbye to someone who was dear to one, but I think also it was to prove to oneself that one was ready and spiritually prepared to leave this life, to give up all those things regarded hitherto as important and to enter a new existence, to meet again one’s friends who were already there, like going from one room of a house to another via the dark passage which we call death. There was a Sergeant pilot in ‘B’ Flight, whom I knew quite well, Norman Spray. He left a letter for his mother. He went missing on a raid the following spring and his words of parting from his mother were so memorable that they found their way on to the page of a national newspaper which I happened to read. I am sure he was an exceptional person to have written in the way he did.
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The minutes ticked slowly by. Hypnotised by the heat from the fire and, I suppose, subconsciously withdrawing from what I believed were my final hours, I think I must have dozed for a few minutes. The tannoy announcement jerked me back to complete wakefulness. The W.A.A.F. said, “All night flying is cancelled, repeat, all night flying is cancelled.”
I immediately started to shiver uncontrollably, despite the fire’s heat. I moved my body around in the chair to try to stop the shakes, to try to hide them in case someone should see. I fidgeted around, stretched, blew my nose, then looked around the ante-room to see whether anyone was watching me. There were one or two ground staff Officers, and Teddy, Eric and Doug, the first two talking quietly over their beer, Doug reading a book, absently stroking his luxuriant ginger moustache with the back of his hand, an unconscious gesture which we all knew well. Outside, the wind moaned, the sleet was still tapping on the window, as though someone were asking quietly to be let in, perhaps like the messenger of Death itself. For not long afterwards, He would claim two of those three.
I took something of a grip on myself and pressed the bell at the side of the fireplace. When the steward came I ordered a beer. I could hardly believe this was happening. He was the man who had drawn the curtains earlier. He took my order, then hesitated and said, not looking directly at me, “You’ll not be sorry, sir, about the scrub, not on a night like this?”
“No, I’m not,” I said, “not on a night like this.”
The shakes had just about stopped by then. I went across to Eric and had a chat and another beer. Neither of us said much about the scrub, he hadn’t been on, anyhow, being in Abey’s crew. I certainly didn’t complain about it. Eventually I went up to my room and furtively tore up the letter into small pieces. I don’t think Frank noticed anything, if he guessed what I was doing he was too tactful to mention it. Then I undressed and got into bed. I was probably going to live for another twenty-four hours.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Low-level [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] LOW-LEVEL [/underlined]
By the third day, those of us who were in the know were getting a little twitchy.
When you are briefed no less than three days in a row for the same target, when you are told it is to be a low-level night attack, when you learn that the whole thing is so hush-hush that only pilots and Observers are to know what the target is until after you are airborne, you only need one scrub to make you jump a bit at loud noises.
After the second briefing, when there was another scrub, and the following day, when there was a third identical briefing, you could have almost cut slices of the tension out of the air with a knife. To begin with, nothing in that city had ever been bombed before. When we knew where it was to be, we looked at each other with eyebrows raised. For very good reasons, we had to go in low and make one hundred per cent certain that we were going to hit the target when the Observer pressed the bomb-release. If we were not certain, then, ‘dummy run’ and round again. No trouble in that, we were told, there were no defences worth speaking of, only a couple of light flak guns at the airport some distance away. Just avoid that, and we shouldn’t have any bother.
So we were told at the briefings, all three of them. Did we believe it could possibly be true? We made ourselves believe it, I think, but it took some doing. Weren’t we used to the Channel Ports, to Kiel, to Essen and the Ruhr, where, in all conscience it was deadly enough at twenty thousand feet at night, let alone at – what was to be our bombing height? – two thousand five hundred feet, straight and level down a corridor of flares?
We would have liked to believe it, certainly. It sounded so – different, so well organised. 235 aircraft, which to us was one hell of a lot, including some Manchesters and four-engined Stirlings and Halifaxes. The first wave was going to drop flares, and keep dropping them so that the whole place would be well lit up, and once
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they'd done that and let go some incendiaries and cookies to start the ball rolling, then the second wave, which was us, would come in and stoke the place up with high explosive, as low as the safety height, 1,000 feet per 1,000 pounds of the heaviest bomb, permitted. If there hadn’t been some Manchesters carrying 2,000 pounders, in our wave, we would have been down around 1,000 feet, I suppose.
What was going through the minds of Mick, our wireless op. in S-Sugar, and Johnnie and Bill, the gunners, being completely in the dark as to what it was all about, I could only guess. But they accepted the situation stoically, and never asked one question. Except when we were clambering out of the transport at dispersal, really on our way, on the third evening, then Mick, who was a married man, said quietly to Cookie, “Is this a suicide effort, skip?” I believe he was recalling those two posthumous V.C.s our Squadron had won less then [sic] two years before, when we had lost five out of five Fairey Battles trying to stop the German advance through the Low Countries. Anyhow, Cookie shook his head.
“No, Mick, it’s not a suicide effort, at least not if I can help it!”
I’m afraid I couldn’t resist mischievously chipping in then, just as we were sorting ourselves out in the dusk of that early March evening under the shadow of S-Sugar’s nose in the quietness of our dispersal.
“You won’t be needing your oxygen mask, though,” I said.
Mick’s eyes widened. It was a bit cruel of me.
“You’re kidding, Harry, aren’t you?”
“No, pukka gen,” I laughed.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Mick said, his Brummy accent very pronounced.
Col, our Aussie Observer, came to the rescue.
“Don’t let it worry yer, Mick,” he said, “it’s going to be a piece of cake. Or so they say, anyhow.”
I was hoping this didn’t fall into the category of famous last words, as we climbed aboard. I found I was yawning quite a lot, while a muscle in my back was trying to do something all on its own.
We took up our positions in the kite. As co-pilot, mine was in the Wimpy’s astrodome until Cookie wanted me to fly it, or needed
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a hand with something up front. I checked the intercom point, saw we had a flare handy in case we had to do a bit of target-finding ourselves, and I groaned inwardly when I saw the stack of nickels, as our propaganda leaflets were known, which I was going to have to shove out over northern France. I took one out of the nearest bundle and saw a cartoon of a depraved and vicious-looking S.S. man, headed, ‘Personalité de l’ordre nouveau.’ I hoped I didn’t meet him later that night in some French gaol.
Faintly through my helmet I heard someone shout “Contact port!” and the engine shuddered into life with a roar, bluish flames spitting out of the exhausts. Then that tune, which remained obsessively with me throughout that night, and which, ever since, has evoked such vivid memories of it, started going through my head – ‘The last time I saw Paris’. Now we were rumbling around the perimeter track. The black shapes of the hangars, topped by their red obstruction lights, came and went. A little group of four or five W.A.A.F.s near the end of the runway waved to us as we passed them. A dazzling green light flashed three dots, our aircraft letter, at us, Cookie opened the throttles and the tail lifted. Then we were charging down the runway, the Drem lighting whipping past the wingtips as the Merlins’ roar rose to a howl at full throttle.
When we had turned on to the course for Reading, our first pinpoint, Cookie checked that everyone was O.K. Then he said, calmly over the intercom, “Now I can tell you where we’re going. It’s the Renault factory in Paris and it’s a low-level do, two to three thousand feet, and there’ll be bags of flares so we can bomb spot on.” There was stunned silence, then Johnnie said coolly, “Paris? That sounds like fun.”
The tension was released and we all laughed immoderately. Cookie told them about the lack of defences, how the crossing-in point had been carefully chosen at the mouth of the Somme, near Abbeville, and how we had to be very sure not to drop anything outside the target area, in case of casualties to the French population.
“I’ve always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower,” Mick said.
From the rear turret Bill, our Canadian gunner, drawled, “Don’t worry, at our height you’ll be able to count the bloody rivets!”
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The evening was clear as our home beacon slowly fell away behind us. It seemed strange to be cruising easily along at about five thousand feet; usually we climbed steadily all the way to whichever target we were bound for. There wasn’t much talk over the intercom, I think the boys were busy digesting the news about the target – and the bombing height. Then the moon came up, huge, brilliant and impersonal, a beautiful sight, away to port. Reading was, as always, easy to find, the railway station was like a dimly-lit flarepath, but it gave us a good pinpoint, however much it might have helped the Luftwaffe. We crossed the south coast dead on track and E.T.A. and headed out over the Channel. Cookie switched off the navigation lights. Shortly afterwards, Mick reported that he had switched off the I.F.F. We were on our own now.
In only a few minutes it seemed, Johnnie said, “Enemy coast ahead, skipper.” I peered forward from the astrodome. The pewter colour of the Channel showed a faint line of dirty white a few miles ahead of us. A few degrees to starboard some light flak was going up, and I reported it for Col to log.
“Probably Le Tréport”, I said, “they always put on a firework display for us.”
Johnnie said, “I can see a big estuary dead ahead.”
“O.K., Johnnie,” Col replied, “let’s know when we cross the coast. Next course one seven two magnetic, skip.”
Then Johnnie said calmly, “Anyone see an exhaust almost dead ahead, same height?”
I hurried forward to stand beside Cookie, and we both saw it at once, a point of orange light, straight ahead of us, and nastily at our own height.
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Cookie said, “I don’t want to be formating [sic] on a goddam 109.”
“Nickels due out in five minutes, Harry,” Col told me.
“O.K., Col, thanks,”
I went aft again, to the flare chute. I heard Cookie say, “That fighter’s still going our way, we must be bloody close to him. I’m going to alter course a bit to try to lose him, then fly parallel to our proper track. Turning ten degrees starboard now, Col.”
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In the darkness of the fuselage I unlocked and extended the flare chute and started pushing the bundles of leaflets out. Once free of the aircraft the slipstream would release each bundle from its elastic band and spread them all over the countryside below. In a little while I heard Cookie say, “That bloody fighter’s still there, damn him to hell.”
Johnnie said, “We’re catching him up a bit, too, skipper.”
“That’s bloody impossible,” Cookie exclaimed angrily. He sounded rather exasperated.
I finished the nickelling, stuffed a couple into my pockets for souvenirs, brought the flare chute in and went forward again, past Mick, who gave me a thumbs-up, and Col. Johnnie had been quite right, that glowing point of red light was definitely larger now. The countryside under the rising moon was a leaden blur, now and again shot with a vein of silver as the moonlight reflected off a river.
“How long to the target, Col?” Cookie asked.
“E.T.A. eighteen minutes.”
The light was really getting quite a bit bigger now and we were still heading straight towards it. Suddenly, it all became clear to me.
“Hey, Cookie!” I exclaimed, “that’s no fighter exhaust, it’s the bloody target!”
There was a moment’s silence, then, “Jesus!” Cookie said in awe, “You could be right, Harry, you could just be right, at that. Check our course, Col, one seven two magnetic, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s it skip, one seven two.”
Now we could see it. It was a fire on the ground, like a huge, glowing ember alone in the darkness. I went back to the astrodome. A pinpoint of white light hung above the glow, like a star, then a second, a third, a fourth. The flares were going down, dropped by the markers, for us. Cookie called out, “O.K., fellers, this looks like it, but we want to be good and sure where we bomb.” As we flew towards the blaze Johnnie said, “I can see the Seine, the fire’s right on it.”
Col said, “Part of the works is on a sort of banana-shaped island
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in the river, we’ve got to fly slap over it.”
We could see almost a dozen flares now, brilliant, whitish-yellow, and trailing rope-like white smoke as they slowly sank towards the ground, suspended from their parachutes. I could dimly see buildings below us. Cookie was turning S-Sugar gently to come in from the south-west; all the action was now on our port beam, then on our port bow.
Suddenly, away to starboard, two light flak guns pumped a few rounds of coloured tracer upwards, but there could have been no aircraft anywhere near them.
“Light flak away to starboard, skip,” I said, “only a few rounds, I think they’ve gone down to the stores to get some more ammo.”
“Just keep an eye on it, Harry.”
I was humming the words of that song to myself,
“The last time I saw Paris,
I saw her in the Spring….”
We were heading straight in now, flares on either side of our nose. The ground was almost invisible against the glare ahead from the fire and the lines of flares hanging in the sky. Col said, “Coming forward, skip.”
A few more rounds of tracer hosed up, away to starboard, but I didn’t even bother to report it. The lack of opposition near at hand was quite uncanny; we certainly weren’t used to this sort of thing. I was searching the sky for fighters, tracer, heavy flak-bursts, but there was nothing. Just the flares, dozens of them now. We were right among them, flying straight and level down a well-lit avenue.
I saw a dim shape loom up, dead ahead, growing rapidly and menacingly larger every second.
“Turn port, skip, quick!” I shouted.
Cookie yanked her nose round. A Hampden, bomb-doors open, hurtled past us on a reciprocal course, obviously completely disobeying briefing instructions as to the direction of the bombing run. He was almost close enough to read his identification letters.
“The stupid bastard,” said Cookie, “what the hell’s he doing?”
“Bomb doors open, skip,” Col said tightly.
“Bomb doors open, Col!”
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The inferno had vanished under our nose. There was a long silence while Col directed our track up to the target. I peered down, but I could only see a jumble of city buildings; I was trying to find the Arc de Triomphe.
“I’ve got that island coming up,” Col said, his excitement showing in his voice, “left, left, steady, right a bit, steady, steady – bombs gone!”
I felt the rumbling jolt as we dropped our load on the Renault factory.
“Bomb doors closed,” Cookie called.
“Oh, bloody marvellous!” Bill almost shouted from the rear turret, “spot on, Col, you got the first one bang on the island and the rest of the stick went right across the factory, I saw them bursting!”
Some distance ahead there was a sudden flash from the ground, a yellowish fire which turned redder and spread out, in a bend of the Seine.
“Some poor sod’s bought it, about one o’clock, five miles,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Cookie, I can see it. Don’t know what the hell he was doing up there.”
I looked back at the target, now a sea of flame beneath the brilliance of the unearthly light of the flares and the moon. A sudden eruption of flame shot up from the factory as I watched.
“Christ! Did you see that?” Bill called, “someone’s hit a goddam petrol tank or something.” We learned later that one of our Flight Commanders, Squadron Leader Jackson, had scored a direct hit on a large gas holder; it was that we had seen.
But the other fire, the burning kite on the ground in the bend of the river, drew our eyes to it as I took over the controls from Cookie.
“Poor sods,” Johnnie said quietly, “I hope they got out of it.”
We droned on over northern France, heading for Abbeville and home. But the excitements of the evening were not over yet. Half way to the French coast Johnnie reported a light flashing from the ground, to starboard of our track. I looked across between the nose and the mainplane and saw it, a square of yellow light, bravely flashing
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di-di-di-dah, “V for Victory”. Col came up to look.
“Good on yer, mate,” he said laconically. Those people down there in Beauvais were risking their lives by signalling to us their appreciation and encouragement, and I felt a strong bond had been forged between them, whoever they were, and us, in S-Sugar.
We flew on towards the mouth of the Somme. Bill said he could still see the target burning, many miles behind us now, and we were riding on the crest of a wave at the obvious success of the attack. We’d never known anything like it before and we hoped we would know many like it again. And as the Renault factory burned in Paris and the V’s flashed out from Beauvais I became aware that perhaps, after many disappointments, we were now beginning to win.
There was much elation as we flew homewards in “S”. We were a cheerful and buoyant crew, that night of all nights. I never dreamed that five short weeks hence I alone, of the six of us in the crew, would be the only one left alive.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] A boxful of broken china [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] A BOXFUL OF BROKEN CHINA [/underlined]
It had happened to Abey’s crew already (although I was not to know this until some years later), and no doubt it had happened to others whom I had known.
It was a common enough occurrence in those days, when we had simply to rely upon dead reckoning navigation with a bit of astro thrown in – there was nothing else to rely on, then – that at one time or another you would stray off track, fly unwittingly over a defended area, and get thoroughly well shot at. I use the words ‘thoroughly well’ advisedly, in the full knowledge that I shall be treading on many corns when I say that the German flak and searchlights left our own standing at the post when it came to accuracy and effectiveness. On several nights while at Binbrook, after our own air-raid sirens had sounded, we would troop out of the Mess to watch the progress of a raid on Hull and, so to speak, compare notes on the Luftwaffe’s reception with what we received, over Germany. We were all left in no doubt as to which target we would have chosen to be over, and would retire to the anteroom when the all-clear sounded, shaking our heads sadly and making rueful and derisive comments concerning the lack of effectiveness of our ack-ack gunners and searchlight crews compared to their German counterparts.
There were well-known hot spots over the other side, places whose names sent a slight chill up one’s spine when they were mentioned. Places such as Essen, or anywhere in the Ruhr, if it came to that, Hamburg, Heligoland, Sylt or Kiel. The list was a long one and the toll taken by those guns of unwitting tresspassers [sic] over their territory was heavy.
But no such reputation attached itself to a town called Lübeck, which we, among 2345 aircraft, were to attack one night late in March 1942.
“Lübeck?” we whispered to one another at briefing that day, “Lübeck? Never heard of it.”
We had it pointed out to us by our Intelligence Officer at the briefing, a bit beyond Kiel, a bit beyond Hamburg and between the two, almost on the Baltic coast. The defences, we were told, were
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believed to be negligible. Oh, yes? Well, we’d heard that about the Renault factory in Paris and that turned out to be true, so why shouldn’t this one be the same? Our confidence was very high after that Renault attack and this one was beginning to sound quite good. It was going to be largely a fire-raising raid. There were a lot of wooden buildings in the town, apparently. This really was beginning to sound very interesting, the chance to do to a German city what they had done on fifty-odd nights in succession to London. However, we were to carry an all-high explosive load in S for Sugar. We were warned, of course, of the proximity to our route of the defences, which we all knew about, of Kiel and Hamburg, but no-one really needed telling about those. We had experienced the Kiel defences twice before recently, once when 64 of us Wellingtons of 1 Group had put the battle-cruiser Gneisenau out of action for the rest of the war. I often wonder which of us it was that hit it, for I remember seeing some quite big explosions that night.
So, as far as the trip to Lübeck was concerned our crew, at least, were in a fairly happy mood. Looking back, I am sure that on that night, while not one of the six of us would have admitted it for fear of tempting whatever fates might be looking down upon us, we were each secretly thinking that this trip, this particular, and possibly only trip we would do, was going to go some way towards approaching the proverbial ‘piece of cake’. One could describe a trip in those terms while drinking, in a post-operational flood of euphoria, one’s mug of rum-laced coffee, waiting for interrogation, bacon and egg, and then bed, but no-one ever had the temerity to voice those words about any target before take-off. Not at any price. Fate was not there to be tempted in such a careless and impertinent manner.
The buoyant mood of the crew of S for Sugar was not in any way diminished when we gathered in B Flight hangar, all kitted up and ready – almost eager – to go. Mick, Johnnie and Col were standing near the crewroom door, looking amused about something, and with a fairly large cardboard carton half-hidden by their flying-booted legs. They had obviously said something to Cookie, now commissioned and doing his first op. as a P/O, for he was showing a lot of very white teeth in his amusement.
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“What’s going on?” I asked, puzzled. Such levity was very unusual before an op., we were invariably rather silent and very tense. Mick nodded towards the box.
“Present for the Jerries, from the Sergeants’ Mess,” he said in his Brummy accent, a broad grin splitting his face.
“What the hell have you got there?” I asked.
“Boxful of broken china,” Col said, “we’re going to chuck it out over the target. It’s all got the R.A.F. crest on, too.”
“Christ, you’re a mad lot of so-and-so’s,” I said through my laughter. Had I known it, I wasn’t going to laugh again for some time after that.
Recalling it now, although I cannot obviously tell where or how the navigation went wrong, it must have done so, somewhere along the line. Perhaps the reason was simply plain fatigue which led to our being off track and flying into trouble. Fatigue which, even as young, fit men, was inevitable when one realises that while the Lübeck raid took place on 28th March, this was our third operation in four nights. It almost alarms me now, to think of it as I write. We had taken off late on the evening of the 25th, the target being Essen, never any picnic. We had bombed what we believed to be Essen, but we had seen, remarked upon among ourselves at the time, and reported at our interrogation, that many aircraft seemed to be bombing much too far west, at Duisburg, we believed. But there were those among the Squadron aircrews who laughingly insisted that we had bombed too far east, perhaps Bochum, or even Dortmund. We still didn’t think so; we believed we had been in the right place and that the main force of the attack had hit Duisburg.
Apparently ‘Butch’ Harris thought so too, for after a few hours’ sleep we were awakened, fully awakened, with the news that ops were on again that night, the 26th. At briefing we learned the target. Essen again, time on target before midnight. It was a sticky trip, and we lost two of our crews, making three lost in the two nights. I have often wondered how many ex-aircrew are alive today who can say, “I was twice over Essen within twenty-four hours, and live to tell the tale.”
So, after the double attack on Essen, twenty-four hours’ rest
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and we were off to Lübeck, the piece-of-cake target compared to Essen, the wooden town which would burn like Hell itself. Provided we got there to see it, which, in the event, we didn’t.
It seemed that no sooner had we crossed the enemy coast, somewhere in Schleswig-Holstein, that a huge, bluish searchlight suddenly snapped on, and pinned us as surely as a dart hitting the bullseye. And not only one, but about a dozen followed. Then the flak started. Cookie was flying S for Sugar, I was in the astrodome. What use I was I don’t really know, except to try to see if there were any fighters about to attack us. Which was ridiculous, with all the flak they were throwing up at us. In any case, I couldn’t see a thing for the dazzling and horrifying glare of all those lights.
Cookie threw the Wellington about as though it were a Spitfire. The sensation was like that of being on a high-speed roller-coaster which had gone mad. And all the time, the intense, bluish flood of light which lit up the interior of the fuselage like day and the thumping of the flak-bursts around us. We had the sky all to ourselves, and, it seemed, all the defences of northern Germany were telling us that this time we weren’t going to make it back home. I was hanging on to whatever I could to stay standing upright in the astrodome, striving to see beyond the lights, to see whether there was a gap anywhere which Cookie could aim for. One second I would be pressed down on to the floor as he pulled out of a steep dive, the next, I would be hanging in mid-air, fighting against the negative ‘g’ and clutching wildly at the geodetics as he topped a climbing turn then put S for Sugar into another screaming dive. We carried one flare, heavy and cylindrical, four of five feet long. This suddenly left its stowage with the violent manoeuvres and hit me flush in the chest, almost knocking me to the floor. I managed to grab it before it damaged the aircraft and somehow secured it again.
I was, of course, frightened, but not uncontrollably so. As the shellbursts thudded around us my fear was climbing steadily, like the mercury in a thermometer on a hot day. I felt I was useless in the astrodome and longed to be doing something active. Quickly I unplugged my intercom and oxygen and clawed my way forward, to see if I could do anything to help Cookie, perhaps to take over
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if he was hit. Col was sitting with both hands clutching at the navigation table, looking rather sick and staring straight ahead of him, while Mick was fiddling with his radio, doing goodness knows what, I thought. I reached the cockpit, where Cookie was wrestling with the controls, his face shiny with sweat, his jaw tightly clamped. He glanced down at me as I plugged in my intercom. Dive, turn, climb, turn, dive – we were corkscrewing all over the sky, losing height all the time. Then Cookie snapped on his intercom switch.
“Col, get rid of the bloody bombs.”
Col came forward, his face looking ashen in the awesome light. A few seconds later I felt the bombs go with a thud. I thought, “I hope they kill somebody, destroy something down there, after what they’re doing to us.”
My fear had now risen to such a pitch it amounted almost to ecstasy.
“Get your chutes on everybody,” Cookie half-shouted over the intercom, “stand by to bale out.”
I obeyed, gladly, and wrenched open the escape hatch near to where I was standing. As I did so, a hole appeared in the aircraft’s fabric skin at my side and I wondered how much damage we had taken. It seemed it was merely a question of a second or two before we were hit and blown to pieces or set on fire, before I and the rest of the lads were torn apart by an exploding shell. They could not go on missing us for ever. I was impatient for the order to bale out; I felt I had had enough of this experience. At the same time I felt a deep sadness that I might be going to die without having led a complete life, a life in which I had not experienced many things. I had never known the love of a woman; I had never even had a steady girl friend.
Through the open escape hatch I could see the earth, a huge forest, stretching away under the moonlight. Still the lights and the flakbursts hammering at us, the smell of cordite. At that moment I came to accept that I was going to die, and at the same time, I now realise that I lost altogether, and for ever, the fear of death. Not the fear of pain, of great pain, which I still possess, but the fear of dying, of the flight into the unknown world of
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the hereafter. I am convinced that in those seconds, a corner of the veil was lifted and I was granted a glimpse of the boundless quietude of eternity. A great and mysterious calm flooded over me, enfolded me in a sensation of complete and deep peace. I now understand what the prayer means when it speaks of ‘the peace which passeth all understanding’. I could not then and cannot now understand it, but I am certain that at that moment, when I felt I was standing poised on the brink of death, the Almighty reached out His hand to me and I responded and touched it with mine. The memory of the incredible sensation of smoothly passing, as it were, through the fear barrier to another dimension, one of all-embracing calm, is one which has remained with me all my life.
Then suddenly it was quiet. Utter quiet – and darkness. We were through it, we had got away. There was the forest below us, and a stretch of water. The Baltic? It could only be. Cookie was almost drooping over the controls now, physically spent, nearly, I knew, at the point of exhaustion. He had saved all our lives.
“Take over, Harry, for Christ’s sake,” he said, and almost dropped out of the left-hand seat. I climbed quickly up into it and took the controls. Someone slammed shut the escape hatch and I inhaled deeply, very, very deeply, hardly able to believe we were still alive, still flying.
We were at a mere 2,0000 feet. Cautiously but quickly I tested the controls for movement and response. Satisfactory. Almost incredible, I thought.
“Col, where d’you reckon we are?” I asked.
“I know where we’ve been, right enough, Harry,” he said, “slap over Kiel.”
“Look, then, I think we’re a bit east or south-east of it now,” I told him, “I’ll steer three-one-five for the time being if you’ll give me a course to take us to that big point of land on the Danish North Sea Coast – you know the one I mean? Near Esbjerg?”
He knew it. He gave me the course and I started to climb; the more height we had, the better for us, in case of further trouble. We had lost thirteen thousand feet in all that evasive action but we needed to get at least some of it back. I had everyone make a check around the aircraft, but apart from a few minor holes we were intact, and there were no injuries of any sort. It seemed
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unbelievable that we could have survived the pounding we had taken with such negligible damage.
In the brilliant moonlight I saw the Danish coast creeping towards us, with the glint of the welcoming North Sea beyond. Esbjerg harbour was sliding beneath our nose; about eight ships were anchored there – and we hadn’t one single bomb left for them. I cursed aloud; they would have been sitting ducks for us. Not a shot was fired at us as I dived S for Sugar gently out to sea.
On the way back I discussed with Col where he thought we had been caught at first; he reckoned we had been trapped over Flensburg and then handed on, from cone to cone of searchlights until we were firmly into the Kiel defences, like a fly in a spider’s web. I was sure his assessment was correct as we had arrived over Esbjerg exactly as we had planned. I settled down to the long, thoughtful flight home. As usual, there was almost complete silence all the way. I am certain that there was not one among us who was not offering up a silent prayer of thanks.
After we had landed, switched off the engines and climbed stiffly down the ladder, we gathered in a group to congratulate Cookie. He was quite matter-of-fact about his marvellous effort. Then Mick said, in that edgy voice of his, “But listen here, Cookie, we used to have decent trips when you were a Sergeant, I hope all your trips as a P/O aren’t going to be like this one.”
He little knew that two short weeks and three trips later, he, Cookie and the rest of them, apart from me, would be dead, in unknown graves.
Then, inconsequentially, I remembered something.
“Hey! What happened to that boxful of china?” I asked.
The tension was easing.
“Oh, that?” Col said, “don’t worry, Harry, we’ll drop it on the blighters on our next trip, get our own back for tonight. Anyhow,” he added, “I’ll bet it’s the first time Kiel’s been dive-bombed by a single kite!”
I recall, with crystal clarity, waling down to interrogation. Col and I were together, he on my right, the others a few paces behind
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us. The moonlight was intensely bright and the hangars and the buildings of the Station stood out sharp and grey under its flood of cold light. There was not another soul to be seen and there was only the sound of our footsteps on the roads which led down from the hangars to the Headquarters buildings. I felt that I did not want to speak now, I did not want to break the spell of the feeling of that great “peace, from the wild heart of clamour” which was pervading my whole being, enfolding me in the purity of its white light, like that of the moon, shining down from God’s heaven on those whom he had spared that night, the night of the Lübeck raid.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] The end of Harry [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] THE END OF HARRY [/underlined]
“And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!”
II Samuel 18, v.33.
“Crews were given a forecast of clear weather over Essen but cloud was met instead. The bombing force became scattered and suffered heavily from the Ruhr Flak defences….. 7 Wellingtons, 5 Hampdens, 1 Halifax, 1 Manchester lost ….”
Martin Middlebrook and Chris Everitt,
The Bomber Command War Diaries.
I open my log-book to refresh my memory of that trip. The entry lies there in red ink, under my fingers, as clear as the day on which it was written, as is now my recollection of the night, which comes flooding back to me.
The date. We were in M for Mother. “Operations, Cologne. Diesel engine factory attacked with 4000 lb. bomb. Moderate heavy flak and searchlights in area, mostly on west side of town. Good weather.” A pencilled note, “263 aircraft in attack; 179 Wellingtons, 44 Hampdens, 11 Manchesters, 29 Stirlings. A new record for a force to a single target. 4 Wellingtons and 1 Hampden lost.” We got off lightly that night. Sometimes, like one we did to Essen, it was ten per cent. It was the last night I ever flew as one of Cookie’s crew.
We approached Bonn from the north-west at about twenty thousand feet, into the brilliant light of the moon, dead ahead. The sight was fantastic, beyond all imagining. We were just off the edge of a solid sheet of strato-cumulus at about ten thousand feet, stretching as far south and east as the eye could see, lit brilliantly white by the moon, and with its north edge, nearest us, as well-defined as the edge of an immense shelf. Out of this layer there towered
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a huge cumulo-nimbus, rearing up, its north side jet black, like a gigantic tombstone, to about 15 or 16 thousand feet and casting a tremendous shadow over the Rhineland. To the north of this cloud-shelf it was crystal-clear, hundreds of stars shone brightly and the Rhine writhed and gleamed like a thread of silver below us. We turned north, to track along it, the fifteen or so miles to Cologne.
We could see it ahead. There were six or eight searchlight cones, with a dozen to twenty lights in each, probing, leaning, searching the sky for a victim to pin like a sliver moth in the beams. Every now and again the cones would re-form to close the inviting gaps between them. Each cone would split in half, the lights from one half leaning one way, and the other half the other way, to join the neighbouring cones, which performed the same manoeuvre, to form new cones. It was hideously fascinating, almost hypnotic, to watch. There would seem to be no way through. The dozens of red flashes of the flakbursts, seen distantly, grew larger and more menacing as we approached. Light flak was hosing up, strings of red, green, orange and white, and below everything, the fires, three or four smallish ones, growing larger all the time. Big, bright, slow flashes as cookies exploded among the flames. We were tensed up as we carried ours in. M-Mother had been specially modified to carry the two-ton bomb which protruded some way below the belly of the kite, the bomb-doors of which had been removed. A single hit from a piece of shrapnel on the cookie’s thin, exposed casing and – the mind shied away from it.
So we felt naked with this inches beneath us as we edged through the searchlights, to the right of the Rhine, weaving constantly through the flak, which we could hear, thumping around us over the roar of the engines. We could see it flashing close to us on all sides. In our imaginations the cookie was growing in size; they could hardly miss it, I thought. More fires started below, a stick of bombs rippled redly across the darkened city, then another. Some incendiaries went down in a yellow splash. Or was it an aircraft going in? Still, the slow, bright flashes of the cookies going down on to Cologne. Col went forward. We could hear his harsh breathing over the intercom as he directed us into the bombing run, guiding M-Mother so that the target slid down between the wires of the bomb-sight.
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“Bomb gone!”
The kite thumped upwards as the cookie left us on its journey of destruction. A tight turn to starboard and we were heading back the way we had come, towards the surrealist cloudscape, the enormous, abrupt shelf with the grotesque tower looming up out of it.
On the way back Cookie called me up on the intercom.
“Will you take over, Harry?”
Someone else said, “come on, Harry, get us home.”
It sounded like Mick, the wireless op. Up to now I had always got them home. I had never in my life been called “Harry” by anyone until we were crewed up at O.T.U. But from them I would have happily accepted any nickname they cared to bestow on me. So we flew on through the night, and I got them home.
When we landed I found the M.O. waiting. He was usually to be seen somewhere in the background. This time, he singled me out and detached me from the weary crews who were standing around, clutching their helmets, drinking their rum-laced coffee, rubbing their faces and eyes to clear their fatigue before they were interrogated.
“How did it go?”
“O.K., Doc.”
“Any trouble?”
“The trip, or me?”
“You.”
“No more than usual.”
“Take your pill?”
“Yes.”
“No effect?”
“No.”
“Take this one, now. Get some sleep and see me in the morning after breakfast.”
“O.K., Doc.”
He slapped my shoulder and trudged off. I went into interrogation with the crew, lighting another cigarette as I did so. Ewart Davies was the Int. Officer at our table. We liked him. He didn’t push us too hard for answers, he was quick, quiet, and had some idea what it was like. He knew we wanted our egg and bacon – and bed. As we walked towards the table, Johnnie, our front gunner, gave me a
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quizzical look. Mac, now our rear gunner since Tommy had gone into hospital, was telling him how he’d chucked some empty bottles out over the target to fox the searchlights; it had worked, too. Gunners were a special breed, and had a special bond.
Next morning, I saw the Doc. He made no bones about it and came straight to the point.
“Come in, sit down. Now then, your grounded until you can have a Medical Board, and as soon as you can pack you’re going on six days’ sick leave.”
I felt as though someone had slammed a brick on to the back of my head. I had flown and lived with my crew for eight months. We had shared much together; more than that perhaps. We had shared everything from hilarious evenings in the “Market” to staring into the face of imminent death, where our expectation of life seemed to be measured in seconds. They had become indispensable to me, we were part of one another, our relationship uniquely deep. We knew one another’s strengths, and weaknesses. Where there was a weakness, and there were few, strength was drawn from the others. Where there was strength, we each drew from it fortitude and endurance. We were closer to each other than brothers and there was an unspoken-of bond of the deepest affection between us all which was greater in its way than anything else in the world of human experience. I was stunned to think I was being parted from them; it was something I had never imagined could possibly happen. Our lives were so much intermingled and we were so completely unified and interdependent that I couldn’t imagine life without Cookie, Col, Mick, Johnnie and Mac.
In a daze, I collected some kit together, saw the Adj. about my travel warrant and found Johnnie. He, of all the crew, was closest to me. We would always sit next to one another on our sessions in the “Market”; he was very quiet, absolutely imperturbable, the personification of steadfastness and quiet courage. Somehow I got to Grimsby, then to Doncaster. On Doncaster station I was surprised to meet Ewart, who had so many times gently interrogated us. Normally so ebullient, he too was now subdued.
“Posted to Northern Ireland,” he said ruefully, in his harsh Welsh
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voice, “Hell’s bells, I never wanted to leave 1 Group, but you’ll be back, don’t you worry.”
Nearly three years later I was to meet him in Malaya. We had much to tell each other then. But now, we were both thoroughly depressed. He saw me on to my train, we shook hands, wished each other “Happy landings” and I looked back at him as the train pulled out, a slight figure, smoking the inevitable cigarette in its long holder, hunched miserably on the end of the platform.
The sick leave was anything but cheerful. I was tired, moody and tense. I developed some new and unpleasant symptoms which I kept to myself. I slept fitfully, ate little, snapped at my parents and listened avidly to every news bulleting on the radio for word of bomber operations. There was a raid on Hamburg, five missing. I drank in the local pub, alone, more than I was accustomed to, lay in bed late, walked alone on the cliffs where I used to go with Ivor on his leaves from the R.A.F. Three of my friends were on the verge of call-up for aircrew and Ivor and another school friend, Connie, had already gone to Stirling squadrons which were being formed and expanded. Of these five, four were soon to die, but there was no knowing that at the time. I looked out the first three and let them eagerly pick my brains, it gave me some relief to be able to talk flying and it filled some of the dreadful blanks in the leave.
I was working it all out. I would apply to go on to night fighters, to get some of my own back, or on to Coastal Command Whitleys. The morning before I was due back off leave I heard the B.B.C. news bulletin.
“Last night, strong forces of Bomber Command attacked the Krupp’s works in Essen and other targets in Western Germany and Occupied France. Much damage was done and large fires were caused. From all these operations sixteen of our aircraft failed to return.”
I found my hands were clenched tightly. Essen. That was an old enemy; we had been twice in and out of its massive and savage defences inside twenty-four hours not so long ago, and it had cost us three of our crews, including our Commanding Officer, in the process. To this day I cannot say or hear that evil name, Essen, without a shiver going down my spine.
My parents saw me off at the station. I was glad to go back;
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I felt like a fish out of water away from a bomber station, it was my life. I was anxious to hear the latest gen., and to get my medical board over and done with, to know what was to become of me. The local train crawled from Doncaster to Grimsby; I found transport there to take me to Binbrook.
My room-mate Johnny Stickings had crashed in January when one engine had failed on the way back from Wilhelmshaven, and he and the only other survivor had been taken to hospital. A little later, another Observer and a good friend, Eric, had gone missing with Abey, our Flight Commander, on Kiel, along with Teddy Bairstow and his crew. I had been moved in with Eric’s room-mate Frank, to keep up our morale, I supposed.
I walked along the empty corridor in the Mess. Someone came out of the ante-room and passed me, a pilot whom I didn’t know. I wondered about him, who he was, who he was replacing. We said “hello”. I went up the stairs and turned left to my room. I opened the door and there was Frank, with his fresh complexion and almost Grecian good looks, putting away his laundry.
“Hiya, Frank,” I said, “what’s the gen?”
“Oh, hello, Harry,” he replied, looking up, “how do you feel? Did you have a good leave?”
“So-so,” I said, “but what’s the gen?”
He cleared his throat.
“Look, Harry,” he said, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. Cookie, your crew, they went missing on Essen two nights ago.”
“Oh, Christ, Frank, no,” I said, dropping on to my bed, “Oh, God, they didn’t. Is there any news of them?”
He shook his head slowly.
“No, I’m afraid not. They went to Hamburg the other night and got back O.K. with everybody else, then they were on Essen and they didn’t come back, I’m afraid. They were in H-Harry, there was nothing heard from them after they took off. I’m terribly sorry.”
I put my head down into my hands; I was beyond speech. I heard Frank go out of the room very quietly. I thought, “I’ve let them down. I’ve failed them completely. I wasn’t with them to get them back home this one time when they needed me more than ever. I wish
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to God I had gone with them.”
And I wondered who had taken my place. Whoever you were, I thought, I would have you heavy on my conscience for the rest of my life, I would forever walk with your ghost at my side. I knew it was the end of something unique and very wonderful in my life, as though a great light had suddenly failed. It was the end of being called “Harry”. To this day I have never permitted anyone else to call me by that name, their name for me. H-Harry was gone for ever, taking them all with it to their eternity, and their own Harry had died with it, and with them.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Silver spoon boy [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] SILVER SPOON BOY [/underlined]
It’s not a part of the city I’m in very often, but a short while ago, after a lunch engagement, I found myself passing the narrow-fronted shop in the busy street which once was the cafe where I had met him for the last time.
I stopped for a minute or so, oblivious to the intense, grim-faced pedestrians brushing past me, and to the traffic as it roared by. And I remembered that day more clearly, it seemed to me, for in that area, while the occupants of the shops and offices have obviously changed many times, the upper facades of the Victorian buildings have remained virtually unaltered – as have my recollections of Jack.
So indeed has the mystery surrounding him, how he came to be in the R.A.F., what happened to him then, and why the man who might have answered my questions would not do so.
There seems to have been no actual beginning to our friendship, it was simply one of those things which developed out of nothing. Since we were merely children at the time I suppose we must have seen each other in the road, probably each of us with a parent, perhaps eventually spoken a few casual words, but looking back now I cannot put any sort of a date upon it. I suppose friendships are like that. My memories of the house we lived in then are intermingled, woven like the coloured threads of a tapestry, with the recollections of the lads I knew at that time – of Alan, of Norman and Peter, and of Jack himself, who lived nearest to me of them all.
He was an only child of quite well-to-do parents. His father was a tall, big-boned, genial man, fond of country pursuits. Jack’s mother was a pleasantly relaxed, comfortably built lady with shrewd eyes, a good amateur pianist who also had rather a fine contralto voice. Jack was very much the son of his parents, cheerful, almost jaunty in manner, generous to a degree and quite undemanding – this last perhaps because he had most things that an only child of fairly well-off parents could wish for. But although he was a boy whom I had heard described, somewhat jealously perhaps, as having been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he was not by any means a spoiled child.
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Like most other boys of my age I lived an intensely active life, physically in top gear from morning till night. But there appeared to be a shadow across Jack’s life. He was frequently absent from school, and on those occasions when I called at his house I would be told by his mother that he was in bed, unwell. These vague illnesses were, more often than not, described as ‘overgrowing his strength’, but eventually there were hints of a weak heart. He began to be excused games at school and their doctor’s car appeared fairly regularly at their front door. Yet he was never anything else but buoyant and cheerful and I never remember seeing him look or behave very differently from a normal, healthy lad. My own parents, at those times when I told them that Jack was poorly, would give each other meaning looks and would now and again make veiled and half-audible remarks about some doctors who knew when they were on to a good thing. These bouts of malaise never seemed to alter in their frequency, and it became accepted, gradually but inevitably, in the small coterie of friends I had as a young teenager, that Jack was perhaps a little less fit than the rest of us.
Jack’s father, as I have mentioned,. Was interested in country life, and in particular, in shooting; he owned a beautiful and gentle-natured black Labrador, by name Prince. Jack’s uncle was a farmer near to the small country town of B - , some sixty miles away, and close to some good shooting. It was only natural that Jack’s family should spend most of their holidays there. One summer it happened that my parents were going through a period of considerable financial stringency; there had never been any luxuries in my life, but now, even the necessities were scarce.
Then Jack’s father, perhaps being aware of our circumstances, and being the generous man he was, casually asked me if I would like to spend two weeks of the summer holidays with them on the farm. My parents readily and gratefully agreed; I was in the seventh heaven of delight. It was an idyllic fortnight, the car drive there and back were memorable adventures enough, to me, at any rate, without anything further. We had the run of the marginal land on which Jack’s uncle grazed his stock, the scenery was very agreeable, there was impromptu cricket to be played, drives in the country and to
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wonderful, deserted beaches nearby. The discordant note, as far as I was concerned at any rate, was sounded by the early-morning shoot which I attended, crouched unhappily in the butts near the sea’s edge in the half-light of a chilly dawn, while Jack’s father blazed away at the beautiful and harmless ducks and we regaled ourselves with bottles of cold tea, which were regarded by the others, at least, as something of both ritual and delicacy. A little while ago I found, at the bottom of a drawer, a photograph, startlingly clear, of Jack and me standing against a haystack during that holiday, two gawky youths grinning into the camera, with me holding Jack’s cricket bat. I was to visit the farm once again.
When the war came, the little crowd of my friends and I, apart from Jack, went our various ways. It is difficult now to place the events of that time in their correct sequence, the constantly recurring pain of many recollections has tended to blur the outlines, but never to soften the impacts of those tragic times. The two events connected with Jack, I am now astonished to realise, were separated by almost three years of war – in my mind they seemed to be telescoped together, their perspective foreshortened by the passage of time.
Strangely enough, my own family’s ancestors had some connections with B - , and my father, who was always much more interested in the family tree than I ever was, had paid one or two visits to the place over the years to search the parish register for reference to our name and to contemplate the inscriptions on our forebears’ tombstones in the shady churchyard on the side of the hill.
My father was quite obviously under considerable stress during the war; the office where he worked was constantly understaffed as more and more men were called up into the Forces. There were also frequent Air Raid Precautions duties which he could not neglect, nor would ever have dreamed of doing so. In addition, my mother’s health was beginning to fail, and they had two sons in the forces, one of whom was engaged in duties where the chances of eventual survival were rated as about two in five.
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Early in 1942 my own crew, in my absence on sick leave, were reported missing on a raid over the Ruhr. I think my parents must have noticed the effect this had upon me, for they decided that on my next leave we could go to B – for a few days, staying at the hotel in the small market place, if I was agreeable. I thanked them, and thought it might be a good idea. It was late spring when we went, with blue and white quiet skies and sunlight pleasantly shining on the grey stone buildings. The hotel was almost empty; B - , while on the main road, was also between two county-towns which drew the local people like the twin poles of a magnet.
Released from operational flying I embarked upon what was to be several months of drinking far more than was good for me, in an attempt to dull the agony of mind and self-recrimination I was undergoing. This must have been painfully apparent to my parents, and must have caused them considerable heartache, but – and I shall always be grateful to their memories for this – they uttered no word of reproach.
How we spent our time there I cannot remember, perhaps I was in a constant alcoholic haze. The only event I can recall with any clarity was the afternoon we visited Jack’s uncle’s farm and I introduced my parents to Mr. Brown, his wife and his two daughters. I remember it as having the appearance and atmosphere of a scene in a stage play. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, gestures seemed limp and exaggerated and we sat like figures in a tableau against the backdrop of the scarcely-remembered living room of the farmhouse, small-windowed, lit by an oil-lamp, a heavy, dark red tasselled tablecloth draped over the massive dining table. Outside, I could see the shelter-belt of firs waving lazily in the breeze, hypnotic in their motion. My parents and the Brown family sat stiffly in their best clothes. What they talked about, I have no recollection; I said not more than perhaps a dozen words. I remember that one of Jack’s cousins kept looking curiously in my direction from time to time. Jack, now working in a branch of the same bank as his father, was, naturally, mentioned. I hadn’t seen him for quite some time, but someone said he would like to meet me when we went back home, before I returned to my unit.
The arrangements were made. My parents and I got off the bus at its city terminus in the Haymarket. They would make their way to the railway station and so home, I would join them later, to pack my kit at the end of my leave, as that day was my last.
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I remember feeling released and lighter in spirit when I left them, and guilty because I did so, but the sense of freedom was pleasant after a week when it had been necessary to cork down my feelings tightly and be on my best behaviour. Yet I almost dreaded going back to my unit, a Bomber Group Headquarters, where I had been given a sinecure of a job while I waited for a medical board, for the news that I might receive of the fate of the crew of H-Harry. As I walked through the grey city streets it seemed as though I were treading the razor-edged ridge of a mountain in a high wind.
We had arranged to meet at a little cafe on one of the main streets. Jack was standing outside, smartly dressed, tall, looking well and, as usual, cheerful. We shook hands.
“Hello,” he said, “nice to see you again. How are you?”
I lit a cigarette as we walked into the quiet cafe.
“So-so,” I replied, “a lot has happened since I saw you last.”
We sat at a small table, ordered coffee and biscuits. I looked at him and said, “You’ll have heard about my crew, have you?”
He looked down at his cup and nodded. I thought he appeared more adult than I’d ever noticed before.
“Yes,” he replied, “I had heard. How do I tell you how sorry I am?”
“Don’t try,” I said, “it’s O.K., I know.”
He asked, uncomfortably, “Do you think they could be prisoners?”
“I don’t know; it’s nearly two months now, no-one’s heard anything?”
We sat silently for a few minutes, traffic noise falling on our ears. Then he said tentatively, looking at the wings on my chest, “Are you finished flying, for good, I mean?”
I shrugged.
“Not as far as I know. I’ve got six months off then I’ll be having another medical board and we’ll see what they say then. I’ll probably go back on ops, I should think; after all, I’ve only done half a tour, I think I owe somebody something.”
“Do you think they’ll send you back again?” he asked, surprised.
“Oh, yes, they can do anything, you know,” I said, “there’s a bloke on the Squadron who’s completely flak-happy and he’s still operating.”
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He looked at me.
“What do you mean, ‘flak-happy’?”
“He’s round the bend,” I said shortly, “got the twitch, call it what you like.”
Jack shook his head wonderingly.
“But they let him go on flying?”
“Sure they do; he’s a damn good gunner and an experienced one, too. He’s not afraid of man or beast. Of course,“ I said, “there is another side to it – he could be dead by now. It’s a while since I saw him, and anything could have happened in that time. It depends on the targets you get. It depends on a hell of a lot of things.”
Jack swallowed hard.
I asked him if he’d seen anything of Alan or Peter.
“They’ve both volunteered for aircrew,” he said. I thought he sounded a bit wistful and I could tell what he was thinking.
“Listen,” I said firmly, “when I went and stuck my neck out I didn’t do it as a dare to the rest of you, you know, there are other ways of getting yourselves into trouble. And don’t you go losing any sleep about not being fit, it’s not your fault, and when the time comes you’ll be shoved into something which will be useful to the war effort, I’ve no doubt at all.”
He looked at my wings again.
“I hope so,” he replied, “it’s not a great deal of fun feeling left out of things.”
We finished our coffee. He insisted on paying for them, saying that he was a rich war-profiteer. He was probably getting a lot less than me, but it was no use arguing, I didn’t have a lot of time, and neither did he. I suddenly thought of that and said to him, “Anyhow, what are you doing here, skiving off during working hours? Shouldn’t you be drawing up balance sheets or something?”
He looked at me a bit sheepishly, squinting into the sunshine as we stood on the pavement with the pedestrians hurrying by around us.
“Oh, I asked the Manager for an hour off,” he said airily, “told him I was meeting a pilot on leave from the R.A.F. He said to tell you to drop one for him.”
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We shook hands.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, “and I hope you’ll have some good news soon.”
“Thanks, so do I.” I could hear the pessimism in my own voice. I looked at my watch. “Well, it’s been great seeing you; until next time, then, so long, Jack.”
It was some time later when I learned, with feelings of complete astonishment, almost disbelief, that not only was Jack now in the R.A.F., but that he had been accepted for aircrew training. I had to read my parents’ letter several times before I could begin to grasp what they were telling me.
Many months went by. I had been stationed at Tuddenham, in Suffolk, for a year, watching the almost nightly operations of, originally, the Squadron’s Stirlings, then their Lancasters; by day seeing the vast fleets of American Fortresses and Liberators forming up overhead to carry on the round-the-clock bombing of German cities. Late on a February afternoon I stepped out of the Tuddenham mail van, on which I had hitched a lift, at the aerodrome gates of Mildenhall, our parent station. The daylight was already fading and there was comparative silence; the Fortresses were back at their East Anglian bases and our Lancasters were waiting, poised to go that night.
I stood watching the roadway which led up to the barrier at the guardroom, chatting to the Service Policeman on duty. I recognised J – ‘s walk when she was far away. The S.P., who knew her, wished us a good leave, saluted and turned away. J – and I had met and worked together in the Operations Room of a bomber station in east Yorkshire, around the time of the Battle of Hamburg. But after a blissful few months I had been posted to Tuddenham, then, quite amazingly, following a bleak interval without her, she had been posted to the Base Operations Room at Mildenhall, a small handful of miles away. Everyone who knew us thought that one or other of us had somehow wangled things; in point of fact it was simply unbelievably good luck. In addition, it was a considerable feather in her cap as Mildenhall was one of the key stations in Bomber Command.
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Consequently, we saw one another several times a week when she, of course, should have been catching up on her sleep after long and hectic hours of night duty when operations were on. Now we were going on leave together; three days at my home then three at hers.
A lorry, known to all as the Liberty Wagon, took us to the nearest railway station at Shippea Hill, along with a dozen or so others, then we caught a local train to Ely. We had a meal there and took the overnight train home. We arrived before breakfast the following morning. When we had freshened up and had breakfast, my mother, who looked paler and more drawn than when I had last seen her three months before, looked at me across the table and said quietly, “I hardly know how to tell you this; it’s so awful, when you and J – have just started your leave.”
I couldn’t guess what was coming, but I steeled myself for whatever it might be.
“What is it, mother?”
She bit her lip then said, eyes averted, “I’m afraid it’s bad news, it’s Jack, he was killed two days ago.”
I felt my mouth open and close, then I reached slowly for a cigarette.
“But – was he on ops? I didn’t know he’d got as far as that, I thought he was still training.”
Mother nodded.
“As far as I know, he was killed training, night flying.”
She paused.
“You will go and see his parents, won’t you? They’re terribly upset, naturally.”
“Of course I’ll go,” I said, “of course I will.”
I went to see them that afternoon, after I had screwed up my courage to the limit for what I knew would be an ordeal for all of us. The tension in their house was almost tangible, their grief hung on the air like a cloud. They knew little about it except that Jack was dead; he had been a Navigator on Wellingtons at an Operational Training Unit in the Midlands whose name, Husband’s Bosworth, rang a bell with me when they told me. His pilot was also from our area;
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they had flown into a hill near a village in Northamptonshire. His funeral was here, tomorrow, would I come? It was unthinkable, of course, that I would not. His father paced the room incessantly, never meeting my eyes, Jack’s mother, her face bloated with weeping, tore at a handkerchief in her deep armchair in the corner. Their beautiful piano, black and shining, would remain unplayed for a long time, I knew, and her voice, which I had so often heard in Schumann lieder, would be silent now. The dog lay across the hearthrug, his eyes following first one speaker, then the other; I felt he knew what had happened to his beloved young master.
I met the cortege at the massive stone and iron gateway of the cemetery the following afternoon. The late winter sun was sinking and it was bitterly cold under the fading colour of an almost cloudless sky. I was the only non-relation there; as the hearse came slowly up to the gates through an avenue of trees I gave it the finest salute I had ever given to any senior officer. When I went home in the deepening dusk J – was alone in the living room, sitting in the firelight. I kissed her gently, holding her to me.
That evening, as I felt I must, I went to see Jack’s parents again. They were sitting alone, quieter than before, and with the calm of resignation beginning to possess them. Prince’s tail thumped the hearthrug twice as I walked into the room, his eyebrows lifted and fell as he looked at me, his chin across his folded paws. Jack’s photograph smiled cheerfully down from the mantelpiece. I told them I had come to say au revoir. His father thanked me for being there that afternoon, then, “Do you think you could possibly do something for us?”
“If I can, of course,” I said, glad to be moving on to practicalities.
“You know Jack was stationed at Husband’s Bosworth when – it happened, don’t you?”
“I didn’t know at the time,” I said, a bit uncomfortably, thinking that I should have done. We had seldom written to one another; one didn’t have much time nor the mental quietude in Bomber Command to do very much in the way of letter-writing, except to one’s girlfriend.
He went on.
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“Do you know anyone there? In your job I thought perhaps you might know someone who could tell us just what happened. We know so little, just what his C.O.’s letter told us, not very much at all. But if you could, perhaps, speak to someone?”
Jack’s mother dabbed at her eyes.
“Actually, I do know someone there, as it happens,” I said, “a chap I worked with at Tuddenham until recently was posted there as Adjutant; I’m sure he’ll be able to tell me something.”
He brightened slightly.
“That’s good,” he said, “really quite a coincidence. What sort of chap is he? You really think he would be able to help?”
I described George, avuncular, knowledgeable, but on occasions fiery and quite outspoken.
“I’ll phone him as soon as I can after I get back to Tuddenham, and get in touch with you.”
“I’ll be glad to pay any expense involved, if there is any,” he said, “and don’t get yourself into trouble on our account, will you? But – we would like to know something, of course.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I told him, “there’ll be no expense, and no trouble at all.”
I said goodbye to them. I was not to know that I would never see them again.
The first day back from leave I rang George quite confidently. He sounded his usual self, brisk, affable as ever, but perhaps slightly fussed. Had he trodden on a few toes already, I wondered? After the conventional greetings were over, I came to the point.
“George, I’ll tell you why I’m ringing you – it’s about a crash you had a week or so ago, the pilot was Sergeant - - . Well, I was a friend of the Navigator. I’ve just come back from his funeral at home and his parents were wondering If you could give them, through me, any further details of how it happened.”
There was an abrupt and surprising change in his manner.
“Is that why you rang me? To ask me that? I can’t tell them any more than was in the letter to them. I’m surprised at them asking you to do this.”
“O.K., then, George,” I said calmly, “if that’s how it is then I’m very sorry to have bothered you.”
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I rang off. I was extremely puzzled and quite troubled by his unexpected reaction; we had always been, and still are, good friends and our working relationship was never anything less than co-operative and mutually accommodating. That evening I wrote to Jack’s father, telling him briefly that I had been unable to obtain any further facts about the crash. He did not reply.
For various reasons, and to my lasting shame, I did not visit the graves of Jack, and of Peter, Connie and Roly, another classmate, all Bomber Command aircrew casualties, for several years. But after having stood in that busy street, gazing at what had been the cafe, and remembering Jack and I as we had been then, both of us in the prime of youth, an inner compulsion drove me to do so. I could find the graves of all of those who were buried there except one – Jack. I visited and revisited the place where I thought I had stood at his funeral, searching the tombstones round about for his name, but to no avail. I had heard that his parents had moved to B – on Mr. Henderson’s retirement and I was almost on the point of becoming convinced that they had had Jack re-interred there.
Eventually, after several fruitless searches, and as a last resort, I decided to go to the cemetery office to make enquiries. In a few minutes I had found it, about a hundred yards away from the place where I had been looking. There was a solid, low grey headstone with a substantial curb. There was the name, Flying Officer John Henderson, ‘killed in a flying accident 3rd February 1945.’ So very near to the end of the war, I thought sadly. The lettering was now so faded as to be almost illegible. Underneath his name were those of both his parents. The grave itself was completely bare, not a flower, not a blade of grass, not even a weed, only the cold, wet earth under the leaden sky.
I stood for several minutes in the silence, remembering them, but especially remembering Jack, incidents from our friendship returning vividly to mind. And I wondered about many things, the questions now long unanswered. Was he really the semi-invalid he had always been made out to be? How then had he passed his aircrew medical? Why did they crash that night? Had he – God forbid – made a navigational
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error? Why had George been so brusque and annoyed at my question?
There were no answers to be found in the rustling of the cold breeze among the fallen, russet leaves, and I thought that there never would be, that I would never know. But worse, I wondered would there be anyone left to remember Jack when I was no longer able to remember, or would his name disappear completely, both from his gravestone and from the memories of everyone who might have known him on earth?
I took the Remembrance Day poppy out of my lapel and pressed it into the sodden, bare earth below his name. Then on that grey afternoon I spoke a few words to him, very quietly, but knowing that somewhere, he would hear. And as the winter dusk was falling I turned away.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I did not expect that I should be writing a sequel to this, but a sequel there is, one long-delayed…
Obviously, I have thought very many times about Jack since his fatal crash and I have visited his grave very many times also. But rarely, if ever, have I dreamed about him. Until a few nights ago, that is, more than fifty-one years since he was killed. It was a dream which was so vivid and so poignant – that realisation was with me even as I was dreaming it – that it has stayed with me, haunted me and disturbed me ever since the early morning when, in this heartbreaking dream, I recognised Jack, from a great distance, walking towards me on a riverside path. There were iron railings on my right, a river was nearby, at my left hand, the path curving slightly from my left to the right. For some reason I was quite sure I was on the riverside at Stratford-upon-Avon. I have been there twice, once during the war, with Connie and Shep, when we were at Moreton-in-the-Marsh together, and once on a brief visit when I was on holiday at Malvern. Yes, this was Stratford, I was positive. And I knew it was Jack approaching, I could distinguish his
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features, his walk, his tall, upright figure. He was as I never saw him in life, in uniform, his peaked cap at a slight angle on his head, the Navigator’s half-wing above his breast pocket. There he was, coming briskly towards me, smiling, the Jack I knew of old. And he was with a girl. Her features I could not distinguish as she approached me with him; they were walking close together, arm in arm. Even in my dream I could feel a lump in my throat as I watched them. They stopped in front of me. I heard Jack say, “This is Janet”, and I could see now that she was smiling, a radiant, pure smile, full of utter delight and joy.
They turned together and walked slowly in the direction that I was going. It had turned slightly misty. I was fascinated by Jack’s girl Janet, wondering what sort of person she was; I could not take my eyes off her. She wore a small, round hat of the pillbox type, and a brownish, quite long, heavy coat. Her lips were full, I saw, and pink; here eyes shone with a wonderful radiance, such as I have rarely seen. I had the overwhelming sensation of their happiness with one another. Then the girl, Janet, looked at me directly, her arm still through Jack’s, and gave me her wonderful smile, so full of bliss.
“We are going to be married,” she said, “next year.”
At that moment she looked as lovely as anyone I have ever seen. But immediately, as though I had been submerged by a wave from the sea, I felt an immense sorrow engulf me, because, as I awoke slowly, with the vision of that lovely, loving couple in my brain, even in my dream I knew that their marriage could never, never be. For Jack was to die; Jack was dead.
It is a dream I shall have in my mind until the day of my own death, until Jack and I meet once more and – God alone knows whether there ever was a girl named Janet – perhaps I might meet that girl who I dreamed was going to marry my oldest and closest friend, The Silver Spoon Boy, the boy who gave everything he ever possessed. ‘Too full already is the grave, Of fellows who were young and brave, And died because they were.’
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Intermezzo [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] INTERMEZZO [/underlined]
“Sign here? And here? That it? O.K., Sergeant. Now, what have I signed for? Oh, I see, one brand-new Wimpy in mint condition with full certificate of airworthiness and rarin’ to go. HD 966, isn’t it? Where do I find her? That it, over there by the dispersal hut? O.K., thanks. Probably be back tomorrow for another. Cheerio.”
“Here we are, on this beautiful morning. HD 966. Plenty of juice, Corporal? Well, I’m not going as far as John o’ Groats, thanks, just to Moreton-in-the-Marsh. Pitot head cover off? Fine.”
“There’s only me. Up the ladder. God, it’s hot in here. Haul the ladder up, stow it next to the bomb-sight. Slam the escape-hatch door. Stamp it down firmly, to be sure. Hell, the heat. Slide open the windows, that’s better. Shove my chute into the stowage. Into the driver’s seat, check brakes on. Push and pull the controls about to test for full movement. Shove the rudder to and fro with my feet. All free. Fine. Check the petrol gauges. Enough.”
“Undercart lever down and locked. Flaps neutral. Bomb doors closed. Switch on the undercart lights. There we are, three greens. Undercart warning horn? God, that’s loud. Never mind. Main petrol cock on, balance cock down.”
“Now. Throttles closed, boost override normal, mixture rich, pitch levers fully fine, superchargers medium. O.K. So – ignition on, open throttle an inch. There we are. Now, yell out of the window. Contact port! Press the starter button. That’s it, got her! Hell! What a row, wish I’d brought my helmet after all. Shut the window. No, damn, not yet. Contact starboard! Press the button. There she goes. Come on, come on. Now shut the window. It’s a bit cooler now, anyhow.”
“Oil pressure O.K., all temperatures O.K. So, what’re you waiting for? Run them up. Port engine first. What a bloody noise. Pitch controls O.K., revs down and up again. Give her plus four boost. This is going to be damn noisy. Here goes. Throttle back, boost override in. Now for it. Open right up. Hell, it’s awful. Plus
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nine and threequarters. Fair enough. Throttle back smoothly. Not too quick. Override out. Now the starboard engine. Stick my fingers in that ear. Pitch control O.K. Plus four boost. Mag drop? ……”
“All O.K., then. Brake pressure? Right up. Try each wheel. O.K. So it should be, too, brand new kite. There goes the Anson with those A.T.A. girls. God, shook me when that blonde brought the Halifax in. Cool as you please, all five foot nothing of her. Damn good landing, too. Smashing blonde, like to see her again. Like to – hey, steady on! Back to business. Test the flaps. Right down. Now up again. Fine. Where’s he taken the starter trolley? Oh. Over there, well away from me. See they haven’t got that bloody Whitley moved yet. Bit off-putting, that, finding a pranged Whitley over a hump in the runway, just after you’ve landed. Plenty of room, though, at least it’s on the grass. Well, come on, let’s get back to Moreton, might have half a can if there’s no more flying today.”
“Chocks away. Wave hands across each other where the erk can see. There he goes with the port chock. Now the starboard. Thumbs up from him. And from me. Little bit of throttle, hold the yoke well back. Here we go. Taxy out over the grass. Bumpy. Wish they’d get another runway put in, too. The one they have got isn’t even into the prevailing wind. Using it today, though, I see. Not much wind at all, but the Anson used it. Lovely sunny day. Swing the nose about a bit, never know what’s ahead. Would hate to prang a Spit or something. What’s that Oxford doing? Coming in. Trundle up to the end of the runway, opposite the line of trees. Bit off-putting they are, too, when you’re approaching to land. Park, crosswind. Brakes on. Relax and watch him come in. Wheels down, crosswind, losing height. Bit bumpy over the trees, of course. Flaps down, now he’s turning in. Nice steady approach. Oh, Christ, here’s a Spit coming in next, what a bind. I’ll have to wait a bit. Yes, he’s put his undercart down. Damn!”
”Float her down, boy, float her down. Now, watch it. Not bad, not bad at all. Over-correcting a bit on his rudder on the runway. Never mind, nice landing, though. Open up my throttles to clear the plugs of oil. Yoke hard back. What a row. There we are, sounds
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O.K. Now throttle back and wait for the Spit. Quick check round the dials again. Set the altimeter to zero. Gyro to zero and leave it caged. Where is he? Oh, here he comes, hellish fast. God! That was a split-arse turn and no mistake. Full flap. Well, he is heading in approximately the right direction. Whoof! He’s down. A bit wheel-y, but never mind, he’s in one piece and still rolling. Now beat it, chum, and let a real kite take off. No-one else in the circuit? Thank bloody goodness. Wait a tick, where’s my friend in that Spit? Oh, there he goes, taxying to the Watch Office. Fighter boys – I don’t know!”
Here we go then. Flap fifteen degrees. Brakes off. Port throttle to turn on to the runway. Hope the far end’s clear. Suppose they would poop off a red if it wasn’t. Nice and central Brakes on. Uncage gyro on 0. Now hold your hat. Open both throttles steadily against the brakes. What a bloody row. Yoke back, now let it go to central. Not too far, not too far. More throttle. Hold the brakes on. She’s shuddering like hell, wants to jump off the runway. Lift the tail just a bit more. Now. Full throttle and brakes off. Here we go – and how! We’re really rolling. Shove those throttles forward against the stops. Touch of rudder against the swing. Fine. Hold it there.”
“Feels great. Love take-offs, tremendous sense of power. Hellish noise, too. Airspeed? 50. Nice and straight, shove the tail well up, a real 3 Group takeoff. Touch of rudder again. 65. Over the hump. Gi-doying! Nearly airborne then! Plus nine and threequarters on both, 3000 revs. Wizard. 75. Runway clear and pouring back underneath. There’s that Whitley. Plenty of room. 80. Almost ready. Still bags of room. Come on, come on. Ease back a bit. Trying hard to go, almost a bounce then. Now? Now she’s off. Airborne. Keep her straight, wheels up. Pick your field in case an engine cuts. Right, got one. Lights out as the wheels come up. Then red, red, red. All up and locked. Throttle back to climbing boost. Revs back to 2600. Airspeed 120. Overrides out. 200 feet. Gyro still on 0. Take half the flap off. Watch it, now. 300 feet. All flap off. Slight sink there, feels horrible. Keep climbing. Everything sounds good. Quick look around the panel. All O.K.
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“1000 feet. Level off. Cruising boost and revs. Select weak mixture on both. Rate 2 turn to port. There’s the Oxford just taking off. Spit’s parked at the Watch Office, next to the Hali. The Hali – God! That girl was a smasher. Cirencester just below the port wing. Now the railway. And there’s the Fosse Way. Follow it home, no bother. The Romans knew how to build roads. Excuse me, Centurion, but there’s an enemy chariot on your tail! Weave left, Lucius Quintus – now! Weather’s wizard, just a few puffs of cloud at 1500 feet. No hurry. Throttle back to economical cruising boost and revs. Try the trimmers. Feet off the rudder. Nice, keeps straight. Feet on again. Hands off. Bit nose heavy. Just a touch on the trimmer. Try again. There we are, perfect, no wing-drop, no pitching, no yawing. Flies herself and purrs like a sewing machine, she’s a beaut. Check the magnetic compass. Heading 037. Cage the gyro, set to 037, uncage. Check around the panel. Zero boost, 1850 revs, airspeed 150, altimeter 1000 feet, temps. and pressures O.K. and steady. Fosse Way sliding along under the port wing. Vis thirty to forty miles, 2/10 cumulus at 1500 feet. God’s in his heaven and all that.”
“What a view, all greens and hazy blues. Fields, trees, hedges, pale little villages. Lovely country. Must really explore it soon. Good as being on leave. I’m lucky. Bit lonely in these kites all on your own, though. Used to five other bods nattering. Nearly four months now. I wonder if there’s any news yet. Write to the Squadron tonight, see if there’s anything come through from the Red Cross.”
“Kite at 10 o’clock, slightly higher. Twin. Oxford, heading for Little Rissington, I’ll bet. Wonder who’ll take this Wimpy over. Couple of weeks and it could be bombing Tobruk or somewhere. Long stooge out there. Portreath – Gib – Malta – Canal Zone. Blow their luck. Wonder what the chop rate is out there. Better than we had, I’ll bet. Spit. at nine o’clock, high, heading East. Going like a bat out of hell. Clipped-wing job. Boy! Is he pouring on the coal. Wonder if he’s a P.R.U. type. Climbing hard, too. There he goes. Berlin by lunchtime at 40 thousand plus, I’ll bet. Nothing to touch him. Take his pictures, stuff the nose down and come home with 450 on the clock. Not a thing near him. That’s the life.”
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“Stow-on-the-Wold coming up below. Must go back to that pub some time. Wonder if I’ll hear anything from the police. No rear light. Jam had no front light. Both tight as newts. Tried to tell the flattie we were a tandem which had just come apart, wouldn’t believe us. Hell, couldn’t even pronounce it, I called it a damned ‘un, could hardly talk for laughing. We’d had a few that night! Blasted nuisance, though, expect we’ll be fined ten bob each. Shan’t go to court, though, write them a pitiful letter. Got no ident letters yet, how about doing a beat-up at nought feet? Oh, hell, can’t be bothered. Too hot, anyhow, slide the window open a bit more. Wouldn’t want to drop off to sleep like I did that night at Moose Jaw. Shaky do, that. Never mind, still alive and kicking.”
“Should write home tonight, really. Can’t be bothered to do that, either. Write to Betty? Oh, Christ, what’s the use? She’s hooked up to that other bloke, whoever he is. Don’t even know his name. Hell and damnation, why didn’t I - ? What’s the bloody use of moaning about it? But, God, she was nice. Wizard girl. There were angels dining at the Ritz - . Oh, for God’s sake, stop it. She’s gone, she’s gone, you’ve bloody had it, you missed your chance. Just stop thinking about her. Forget it. Oh, hell, why didn’t - ? Christ! Forget it, can’t you? Think of something else. Yes. Yes. What? I know. Let’s have a song.”
“Ops in a Wimpy, ops in a Wimpy,
Who’ll come on ops in a Wimpy with me?
And the rear gunner laughed as they pranged it on the hangar roof,
Who’ll come on ops in a Wimpy with me?”
“There we are, Moreton dead ahead. Long runway end on to me. Two kites on the circuit. God, I’m ready for a bite of lunch. Wonder what it is? I’ll do this right, otherwise the Boss will chew me off.”
“Into wind over the runway in use. Good look-see at the Signals Area, then a copybook circuit. Here we go. Signal for transport by pushing the revs up and down again. Makes a nice howl, hear it for miles. Oh, hell, I expect I’ll get chewed off for that, though.”
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Blast him, why does he hate my guts? Those other two Wimpies have gone, must have landed. Yes, can see one taxying. Reduce airspeed to 140. No signals out except the landing-T and that’s O.K. Crosswind leg. There’s the van leaving the Flight Office, good-oh, he’s heard it. Turn port, downwind. Throttle back to 120. 120 it is. Lock off, select wheels down. Red lights out. Green, green, green. Down and locked. Ready for crosswind.”
“Rate 1 1/2 turn to port, now. Nice. Select flap 15 degrees. Stop. Lever to neutral. Push a bit to compensate for the flap. Now the approach. Full flap. Shove the nose down. Rate 1 1/2 turn to port again. Watch the airspeed. Back to 95. Pitch fully fine. The van’s heading for dispersal down there. Keep the speed at 95. Dead in line with the runway, height just nice. Carry on, carry on. Losing height nicely, speed dead on 95. Trees rushing by. Lower and lower. Throttle right back. Push the nose down a bit more. Ten feet, now level off. Lovely, sinking down beautifully. Airspeed falling off as the runway comes up. Clunk! We’re down, what a beaut. Have we landed, my good man? I didn’t feel a bloody thing. Keep straight with the rudder. No brake, plenty of room. Slowing down now. Flaps up. Turn right at the peri. track. There we are.”
“Van’s waiting for me. Good-oh. Follow it round to whichever dispersal. Go on, then, after you, I’m waiting. That’s better. Get well ahead, where I can see you. That’s it. Weave the nose a bit. Not too rough with the throttles. Bit of brake now. O.K., I see which dispersal. Bit more brake. Slow right down. Turn into dispersal and swing round into wind in one go, with the starboard throttle. Flashy! Throttle back, straighten her up. There’s an erk with the chocks. Roll to a stop. Brakes on and locked. Pull up the cut-outs to stop the engines. That’s it, piece of cake.”
“Ain’t it gone quiet? Out of the seat. Where’s my chute? Yank open the escape hatch and shove the ladder down. Just nice time for lunch. Wotcher, Loopy, thanks for the lift. Did you witness my absolutely superb landing? No? Well, you missed a treat. How’s the Boss? What was that? Do what to him? Not me, old boy, it’s
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a Court Martial offence, and besides, it’s immoral. Come on, let’s go for lunch. What about the White Hart tonight? By the way, you missed a treat at Kemble this morning. I was just standing there, waiting until this kite was ready, when a Hali. comes into the circuit. Lovely approach and landing, taxies in, stops, and what do you think, out steps this A.T.A. pilot. Wait a minute, wait a minute, this one was a dame, and a wizard blonde at that. Now just let me describe her to you in some detail, you lascivious, drooling Australian, while I permit you to drive me to the Mess. Well, now, she was about five foot six, and her figure…..”
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[inserted] [underlined] Overshoot [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] OVERSHOOT [/underlined]
In that glorious summer they had decided that I could do some non-operational flying, so they posted me away from Group Headquarters at Bawtry Hall, where I’d been playing about with a bit of admin. work, a lot of cricket, and, between drinking sessions, flirting with a couple of W.A.A.F.s.
Bawtry had been very pleasant but it was distinctly stuffy after the Squadron. I was the only recently operational aircrew there and I always had the feeling that they were waiting uneasily and suspiciously for me to start swinging from the chandelier, or to come rushing up to someone very senior and snip his tie off at the knot. What really made it for me was the brief moment when I happened to look across the anteroom one day – where Group Captains and other wingless wonders were two a penny, with bags of fruit salad to be seen on their chests, though – I looked across and saw him standing there, quite quietly. It was “Babe” Learoyd, and he had only one medal ribbon, that of the Victoria Cross.
It was a bit strange when I found myself back on a Wellington Station again, even more so because this one, an O.T.U. at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, was set in lovely pastoral countryside, a complete contrast to my Squadron’s base on top of the Lincolnshire Wolds. As I was back on flying, I decided that instead of getting drunk every night I’d better cut it down a bit, to every other night, if I wanted to survive, of course, which was debatable. I suppose that was oversimplifying it, because if I misjudged something and pranged, I would possibly write myself off, but I might take a few quite innocent people with me, which wasn’t by any means O.K.
However, I needed something to knock me senseless at night, because I was still getting nightmares. In the end, I would usually fight myself awake, distressed and sweating, and lie wide-eyed, until the summer dawn at last came palely to my window and I heard the distant whistle of the first train as it wound its way through the trees and by the little brooks down to Adlestrop and Oxford.
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That train and the railway station in the small market town gradually became to me symbols of ordinary, carefree life, of freedom and safety from sudden death, symbols I was desperate to hang on to. Eventually, the station became so central and vital a part of these imaginings that I lived in considerable and constant anxiety lest one of our aircraft while using the short runway which pointed directly towards it, should crash on to it and destroy my only link with the sanity of the outside world.
I wasn’t posted to the actual O.T.U. in Moreton, but to No. 1446 Ferry Flight. Basically, the idea was that we picked up brand-new Wimpies from Kemble, about half an hour’s flying time away, flew them solo, following the Fosse Way, back to Moreton, then handed them over to pupil crews from the O.T.U. who would do one or two cross-countries in them and then fly them out to the Middle East, in hops, of course, to reinforce the Squadrons in the Western Desert. Sometimes they were straight bombers, nevertheless looking strange in their sand-coloured camouflage, sometimes “T.B.s”, torpedo-bombers, with the front turret area faired in by fabric and the torpedo firing-button on the control yoke, and sometimes they were pure white Mark VIII “sticklebacks”, bristling with A.S.V. radar aerials, low-level radar altimeters and the like.
One morning I had collected a T.B. from Kemble and was bringing it in to Moreton. No bother at all. Except on my approach to land I seemed to be coming in a bit steeply, I thought. I checked the airspeed, 95, correct. I checked the flap-setting – yes, I had full flap on, and wheels down. Looked at the A.S.I. again. Still 95. But, hell, I thought suddenly, it’s graduated in knots. Frantic mental calculations to convert knots to m.p.h. Ease back on the control column a bit. Multiply by five, divide by six, I concluded. Say, 80. So, bring the speed back to 80 indicated. I should have checked before take-off, of course. After all, this was a T.B., a nautical job. Looks right now, I thought, except that I’m floating a bit while the airspeed drops off, using a bit more runway to get her in. No panic, though. I got her down quite nicely and didn’t go anywhere near the far hedge. Quite a good landing, too, though I says it as shouldn’t.
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But, just my luck, Squadron Leader --- had noticed it.
“That’s not a bloody Spit you just brought in, you know, Junior,” was his greeting as I walked into the Flight Office. I sighed inwardly. Here we go again, I thought.
“No, sir.”
What the hell were you doing? Trying to land at Little Rissington?”
“Just came in a bit fast, sir, that’s all.”
“You should’ve gone round again, done an overshoot.”
“Well, sir, I don’t much like overshoots on Wimpies.”
He grunted.
“Don’t like overshoots,” he said acidly, “Are you a competent pilot, or not?”
“Yes, sir, I am, but I don’t like taking unnecessary risks.”
To tell the truth, I hated overshoots completely. You had to shove on full throttle when you decided you weren’t going to make it, and with the full flap you already had on, the nose tried to come up and stall you at fifty feet. So you pushed the nose down with all your strength and some frantic adjustment of the elevator trimmer – three hands would have been useful about then – to pick up some speed before you even thought of climbing away to have another shot at a landing. Then, while keeping straight you had to milk off seventy degrees of flap a little at a time – and she wasn’t at all fond of that process. She wanted to give up the whole idea and just sit down hard into a field, to sink wearily on to the deck and spread herself, and you, around the county. You had to be damn careful not to take off too much flap in too much of a hurry when those big trees came nearer, or when those hills started to look rather adjacent. At night, of course, you couldn’t see them at all, but you knew they were lurking somewhere handy. If you were in a hurry about taking the flap off, then, you went down like a grand piano from a fourth-storey window, and you’d had it. No, overshoots were definitely not for me, thank you very much, not unless they were absolutely essential, and I knew that I knew, to the foot, when they were. I’d never been wrong yet.
“Well, watch it in future, Junior, and don’t set the pupils a bad example.”
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I could quite understand why Loopy had been within an ace of punching him in the face, a few days previously. It wasn’t only the things he said, it was the way in which he said them. Before I could reply he went on, “You might be interested to know that we’ve got the S.I.O.’s son taking a kite out to Gib. soon, he’s done his circuits and bumps and he’s crewed up. His father had a word with me at lunchtime yesterday.”
As I only knew the Senior Intelligence Officer vaguely by sight I merely murmured something non-commital [sic] and asked if there was anything else. I was told, reluctantly, no, there wasn’t, so I saluted and drifted out to have a word or two with Dim and Loopy.
A few days later there was a gap in the flow of kites from Kemble, and as Loopy and I had done all the compass and loop-swinging on those we’d recently collected I took myself off to the Intelligence Library. I was standing at one of the high, sloping library desks, reading one of the magazines, when out of the corner of my eye I saw someone come in and stand at a desk about six feet to my left. I took no notice of him but carried on reading Tee Emm or whatever it was. When I had finished, I turned to go – and recognised him.
“Christ! It’s Connie, isn’t it?” I exclaimed.
I had last seen him in the Sixth Form at school, five years ago. Five thousand years ago.
“Yoicks!” he said, greeting me by the nickname I’d almost forgotten. Connie wasn’t his real name, either, but he’d always been called that at school because, it was said, he had a sister of that name who was more beautiful than the moon and all the stars. A shame I never met her. We shook hands vigorously.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“Been posted to something called a Ferry Flight,” he replied.
“Bloody marvellous! I’m in that, too; come into the madhouse!”
“Well, blow me,” Connie said, “it’s a small world, isn’t it?”
We celebrated that night, in traditional fashion, with several pints apiece. It was great to have him with me, he was jaunty, carefree, entertaining and likeable. I had noticed, of course, that he had the ribbon of the D.F.M. One day, as we walked through some nearby town on a half-day off, I noticed too that his battledress was ripped,
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just below his ribs, on one side.
“By the way,” I said, “do you know you’ve torn your battledress?”
I pointed to the damage. He laughed heartily.
“That’s my line-shoot, I’m not repairing that, Yoicks – got that over Turin from a cannon-shell. Never felt a thing!”
It was about this time that I discovered the poems of A.E. Housman and, on free afternoons, I would lie on the unkempt lawn of the little cottage where I had my room, out beyond the Four Shires Stone, and would read his poems long into the drowsy, high-summer afternoons, their words tinged with the sadness that I had learned. And as I lay there, the supple, vivid wasps would tunnel and plunder the ripe plums I had picked off the little tree under whose shade I rested. There was constantly to be heard, with the persistence of a Purcell ground, the noise of the Wellingtons on the circuit, two miles away, over the lush green Gloucestershire landscape, hazy with heat, the sound rising and falling on the consciousness like the breathing of some sleeping giant.
At length I would pick myself up, stiffly, feeling the skin of my face taut with the sun, and put the poetry away. Then in the incipient twilight I would stroll down the road towards the sinking sun to meet Connie, to have dinner in the Mess and to slip easily into the comfortable routine of an evening’s drinking with him, and perhaps with Dim, Loopy, Pants or Mervyn, in the anteroom, or down at the White Hart in the village. I would see Connie’s dark hair fall across his forehead, his heavy black brows lift and lower expressively over his mischievous eyes as he told some humorous story of his days and nights on his Squadron at Downham Market. Sometimes, when we were flush, he and I would catch a train to one of the neighbouring market towns, to embark on an evening’s pub crawl, laughing at each other and at ourselves as the beer took effect, and as the darkness slowly fell, un-noticed; each of us drowning our private memories.
Once, a bunch of O.T.U. pupil crews came into a pub where we were sitting – was it in Evesham? – obviously on an end-of-course party before they went their various ways to join their bomber Squadrons. They joked a lot, sang a bit and indulged in some mild, laughing horseplay. Connie, who like me had been watching them, suddenly
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grew solemn.
“Poor sods,” he said gravely, “they don’t know what’s coming to them, do they, Yoicks?”
Poor Connie, too. He himself had not long to go. Just over a year later he was killed, at the controls of his Stirling, where, had he known that he must die, he would have wished to be, I think.
Eventually, wherever I had been, I would fall into bed, my brain dulled by the alcohol, but neverthless [sic] conscious enough to dread what the night might hold for me, waiting for the nightmares to come again.
There was one kite in the circuit, wheels down, as I strolled towards the Mess for dinner as twilight was beginning to fall. It was yet another lovely evening, and what with the idyllic existence and Connie’s new-found friendship, I was feeling that as far as I was concerned, I could stay here until further notice, despite Squadron Leader --- and his unpleasant little ways.
I was quite near to the Four Shires Stone when I heard the sudden howl as the kite’s engines were opened up to full throttle. Should we go to the White Hart with Loopy and Dim tonight, I wondered, or have a bit of a session in the Mess? Just then there was a loud thump and a silence, another thump, and I saw a telltale column of black smoke erupting over the hedges and treetops ahead and slightly to my left, a mile or so away, I guessed. The kite had overshot and gone in.
“Jesus!” I said, and broke into a run down the road. I was panting and sweating along when suddenly the Flight van screeched to a halt beside me, going the same way. Squadron Leader --- was driving.
“Get in, Junior,” he yelled, “We’ve got to get them out!”
He let in the clutch and drove fiercely down the empty road. The pillar of smoke grew bigger as we got nearer. Then I saw the gap in the hedge and the smashed tree where it had hit. At the far edge of the field the shattered Wimpy burned savagely. We skidded to a stop and flung our doors open. As I ran through the gap in the hedge and across the field, --- raced around the front of the van to join me. I could feel the heat on the surface of my eyes from
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the wall of leaping flame. The kite’s geodetics were like smashed and twisted bones stripped of their flesh. I ran on, over the cratered and churned earth. There was a reek of petrol, of ploughed earth, and of something else, sweetish, sickly, burned. An engine lay to one side, the prop grotesquely curled back.
Suddenly there was a ‘whumph!’ and I found myself on the ground. A petrol tank had exploded. I got up again and went towards the inferno that was raging under the smoke-pall. I splashed through a pool of something. I could hear Squadron Leader --- cursing somewhere nearby; I was gasping and sobbing for breath.. [sic] Then the oxygen bottles started to explode and bits of metal went screaming viciously past me. I tripped and fell heavily. And I saw I had fallen over something smoothly cylindrical, like an oversize sausage, bright brown, and with a smouldering flying boot at the end of it. A few feet away lay an untidy, horribly incomplete bundle of something in what looked like Air Force blue, lying terribly still under the stinking glare. I was retching, on all fours, unable to move further. I dimly heard another explosion nearby, sounding curiously soft, there was a blast of hot air on my face, and then there were the bells of the approaching fire-tender and ambulance.
I was being dragged by my shoulder. It was ---.
“Come on,” he panted, “we’ll never get near it. They’ve had it, poor bastards.”
We must have made our way back to the van as the rescue vehicles arrived; I don’t remember much about that part. I was leaning up against the side of the van and wiping my face with a shaking hand when I heard --- say, “Now I’ve got to go and tell the S.I.O. that his son was flying – that.”
“Oh, Christ,” I groaned.
“Let’s go,” he said, “Let’s get to hell out of here.”
He switched on the engine of the Utility as the black funeral pall of smoke spread over the sky, and thinning, smudged the sunset dirtily.
I read an article in a magazine recently. The writer had been visiting some place which had impressed her. She concluded with
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the words, “But you never lose an experience like that. You carry it around with you.”
Yes. And sometimes you feel you need just a little help to carry it just a little further.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] First Solo [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] FIRST SOLO [/underlined]
I drank some more beer and said to Connie, “The trouble with Shep is that he’s far too damned opinionated, and what’s much worse, he’s far too often right. You just can’t knock him down, can you?”
Afetr [sic] several pints in the White Hart I was feeling less in control than I might have been, but having given vent to that penetrating observation I felt quite foolishly and inordinately pleased with myself. Connie, who had also had several, perhaps for different reasons, looked at me a trifle owlishly.
“I say, Yoicks,” he said, slurring just a little, “that’s rather good. You’re dead right.”
“If you don’t mind, Connie,” I said, “I’d rather you didn’t use that word.”
“What word? What have I said?”
“Dead,” I replied.
At the time, Connie and I were busy settling into our new routine in ‘X’ Flight of the O.T.U. at Moreton-in-the-Marsh. The powers-that-be had decided that there were too many pilots in Ferry Flight just across the way, and not enough utility pilots in ‘X’ Flight. Squadron Leader ---, with barely disguised joy, had promptly nominated me for transfer. And perhaps because he knew Connie and I were close friends, he had selected him to accompany me.
“Utility” was the word for it. We flew Wellingtons on fighter affiliation exercises and on air-to-air gunnery, one pilot and a kite full of A.G.s who took it in turns to man the turrets. Fighter affiliation was by common accord reckoned to be gen stuff, that is, approximating to the real thing – mock attacks by the ‘X’ Flight Defiant, convincingly hurled around the sky by Cliff, at which the gunners “fired” their camera-guns. But the air-to-air lark, I always thought, was of very doubtful value. Our Lysander flew straight and level, towing on a cautiously long cable, a canvas drogue, at which the gunners fired live ammo. with prodigal enthusiasm. Doubtful value? I might have said “pointless” instead. How many Me109s or 110s obligingly flew alongside you at a convenient distance and invited
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you to have a shot at them? It was damn noisy, too, with both your turrets blazing away, and the smell of cordite lingered on your battledress for days.
Most of the time the Defiant or the Lysander, whichever was in action, was flown by Cliff. He was tallish, lean, dark-haired and casual, a Canadian Flight Sergeant, but a man who might have stepped straight out of a Western film. Like Connie, he too was entering the last few months of his life. Cliff, the casual, was soon to be killed over Hamburg in his Pathfinder Lancaster.
The other occasional pilot on the two single-engined kites was Hank, an American, a Flying Officer in the R.A.F., also casual and easy-going, but suave, where Cliff was slightly flinty. The two were inseparable, if only as inveterate gamblers. I learned a lot about the gentle art of shooting craps from Cliff and Hank. On days when there was no flying, when Bill, Connie and I would be lecturing the O.T.U. pupils on Flying Control systems, emergency procedures, dinghy drill and airfield lighting and also, in my case, on the layout of the multifarious internal fittings of the Wellington, Cliff and Hank would retire to a quiet corner of the hangar. Gambling was strictly prohibited by the R.A.F., of course, but the rattle of dice would faintly be heard, punctuated by urgent cries of “Box cars!” “Baby needs new shoes!” or “Two little rows of rabbit-shit!” Money was never seen to change hands, but now and again it was apparent, from the obvious tension which was building up between them, that the stakes were high.
Our happy little Flight was genially run by an Irish Flight Lieutenant named Bill. Bill was the very antithises [sic] of Squadron Leader --- whom I’d just left behind. He was a tall, gangling, rather awkward-looking pilot who affected a slightly vague nonchalance about life in general. One of his endearing little foibles was that he seldom, if ever, referred to an aircraft by its proper name. It was commonplace that all Wellingtons were Wimpies, and fairly common that Lysanders were Lizzies, but he extended these nicknames by referring to our Defiant as a Deefy.
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I sat in on his introductory lecture to a new Course, a dummy run for me before I took over the conducting of the wedding ceremony of sprog crews to the Wimpy. They had all come off Oxfords and it was a bit awe-inspiring at first to be confronted by the size and complexity of the Wellington at close quarters. Bill’s opening remarks were memorable. He lurched up on to the dais, which was, in our hangar, alongside a complete Wellington fuselage, stripped of its fabric, and also near a separate cockpit taken from another kite. He looked slowly around the faces in front of him, as though surprised to find himself there at all, then lit a cigarette, exhaled, beamed happily at our new charges, coughed softly, and in an unbelievably broad Ulster accent uttered the following pearl of wisdom and deep scientific truth.
“Well, now. This here – this here is a Wimpy, and –“ patting a mainplane as one would a favourite dog, and lowering his voice confidentially as he leaned forward earnestly towards them – “these are the wings. Now you’ll be wondering what keeps them on. But don’t you be worrying yourselves about that, ‘cos it’s ahll [sic] ahrganised.” [sic]
After that, he had our pupils in the hollow of his hand; they adored him, as we all did. Dear old Bill. Old? He was about twenty three.
Bill, Hank, Cliff, Connie and me. A nice mixture; one Northern Irishman, one American, a Canadian and two Englishmen. Then into our happy little world stepped a newcomer. Shep. Correction – he did not step, he never stepped. He would barge, blunder, or he would push, but step? No. However, he arrived, all right. That was the system all over. ‘X’ Flight had needed two pilots, so it got three. Shep was a stocky, powerful little Yorkshireman, darkish hair thinning a bit, snub-nosed, built like a prop forward and always with a challenging look shining from his eyes, as though to tell the world, “I’m only five foot six but don’t let that fool you, I’m little and good and I’m worth two of you.” In his manner of speaking he was blunt and earthy to the point of rudeness, but almost everything he said was accompanied by that challenging look and a grin, which took the edge off most of his outrageous remarks. While none of us, except perhaps Bill, were saints as regards our language, which was, when circumstances demanded it, bespattered with words we wouldn’t normally use in mixed
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company, not to mention the odd spot of blasphemy, Shep’s outpourings were liberally garnished with a single oath, namely, “bloody”, which, at times, he rather over-used, I’m afraid.
Like Connie, he had been on Stirlings in 3 Group, or rather, “them bloody Stirlin’s” and, of course, when he realised that he and Connie had that in common he attached himself firmly to the two of us. So our placid little duo became a slightly turbulent trio. Express an opinion which didn’t match Shep’s and, “Ah’m tellin’ you, you’re bloody wrong. Now listen ‘ere – “ and one would be corrected in no uncertain way.
On an occasion when flying was scrubbed for a couple of days due to bad weather, we found ourselves in the city of Oxford. We had a meal, and we also had several beers. When it came to the time to go for the train back to Moreton it was growing dusk and it became necessary to find our slightly alcoholic way from an unfamiliar side street to the railway station. There developed a slight divergence of opinion as to the correct course to steer; Connie and I were all for heading in a certain direction, but not so Shep. Oh, no.
“It’s not that bloody way, Ah’m tellin’ you, Ah’m bloody sure we passed that big buildin’ over there when we came in.”
Meekly, we followed him. And arrived at the railway station in a few minutes. That was Shep all over. A trip to Stratford-on-Avon followed, one Sunday, and we were regaled with a lecture on bloody Shakespeare, and also bloody Ann Hathaway. The trouble was that Connie and I were both reasonably ignorant about Shakespeare and all his works and couldn’t contradict, or even argue with Shep. It was a trifle frustrating, to say the least, at times.
I seem to recall that it was my idea in the first instance, to have a bash at the single-engined kites which we owned. I had been up with a crowd of gunners on fighter affil., no evasive action, of course, to give them practice in getting the Defiant in their sights long enough to get a picture of it. It was simply a question of flying a straight-line track along the line of the range for about forty miles and back again, while all the gunners had a shot. To be honest, it was pretty damn boring, except when one of the pupils,
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despite all my previous entreaties and warnings, would clumsily heave himself in or out of the rear turret and give the undoubtedly adjacent and awkwardly placed main elevator control shaft a hearty push or shove, whereupon we were all hurled up to the roof or on to the floor amid a torrent of curses, depending on whether the kite was forced suddenly into a climb or a dive. It broke the grinding monotony of straight and level flight, though, and once back into the correct attitude everyone had a good laugh about it, including me. Needless to say, the exercise was conducted at a very respectable altitude to allow for such eventualities, and also to give Cliff free rein to throw the Deefy around with considerable abandon.
I was stooging along at about six thousand feet on a day of pleasant sunshine while all this was going on around me, watching Cliff out of the corner of my eye as he screamed across and down beyond my starboard wingtip in a near-vertical bank which he would then convert into a steep turn and a rocket-like climb, before coming in at me again from some new angle. I was thinking that it was pretty to watch, and that he should have been a fighter boy. I thought also that I might well have been one, too, had I not had two early love-affairs, a distant one with the Wellington across the field at Sywell, the other with Betty who had suffered under the German bombing of her home town. But the germ of an idea was growing as the morning progressed and as I day-dreamed, holding the Wimpy on course over the placid Gloucestershire landscape while the white puffs of cumulus drifted lazily by on their summer way.
When I’d finally finished the detail and landed back at Moreton I disgorged my crew of gunners and wandered into Bill’s office. He was sitting there doing his best to look like Lon Chaney on one of his off-days.
“Hello, Bill,” I said, “have you got a minute?”
“Sure, Junior, me boy,” he replied, “and what would be on your mind, now?”
“Well, it’s like this,” I said thoughtfully, “I’ve been watching Hank and Cliff having all the fun chucking the Deefy and the Lizzie about –“ he had me doing it by this time – “ – and I was thinking I’d like to have a bash on them, too. I did my S.F.T.S. on Harvards,
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you know.”
“Did you now?” he answered thoughtfully, “well, well, let’s see.”
He lowered his voice confidentially and looked around conspiratorially. He pretended to be watching a Wimpy on the circuit.
“As a matter of fact,” he said quietly, “a little bird tells me that Hank might be leaving us soon.”
“Oh?” I said, not wanting to appear to be too inquisitive, and waited for him to go on.
“Yes,” he said, “apparently the Chief Instructor came across him and Cliffy rolling the bones in a quiet corner, and poor old Hank, him being the senior and an Officer and all, is going to be sent to the place where they send naughty boys.”
“But what a bloody stupid waste,” I exclaimed, “Hank’s a damn fine pilot. He goes and sticks his neck right out, volunteers for the R.A.F. when he had no need to, being a Yank, and just because he rolls a couple of dice they’re going to kick him up the backside. It seems damned childish to me.”
“Oh, he won’t be grounded for good, or anything like that, he’ll just do drill and P.T. and parades and so forth for a couple of weeks, then they’ll send him back on flying, somewhere. Anyhow, the point is, I could use another pilot or two for the Deefy and the Lizzie, so you and Connie and Shep might as well have a go. It wouldn’t be fair on them if I said O.K. to you and not to the other two.”
“No, of course not,” I said.
“There’s no dual controls, you realise that, don’t you, Junior? You’ll have to pick it up from a ride or two in the back seat and read up the Pilot’s Notes a bit.”
“I’ve already been genning up on them,” I grinned, “I think I know where all the taps are, it’s just a question of getting the feel of the things.”
“You crafty so-and-so,” Bill said, smiling. “O.K., then, you fix it all up with Cliffy and I’ll have a word with the other two. H’m. Is that the time? Neither of us are flying this afternoon, so how about a quick noggin before lunch?”
“Sound suggestion, Bill,” I said.
We walked up to the Mess together; I was feeling slightly excited at the thought of getting a couple of new types in my log-book. I suppose I liked the challenge.
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It was strange to be sitting jammed into the four-gun turret of the Defiant while Cliff flew it around the circuit and gave me the gen.
“She’s a bit of a heavy sonofabitch,” he drawled, “but she’s got no vices if you treat her right.”
To be honest, I couldn’t see anything of what went on in the cockpit in front of me, all I could do was to form some idea of the distances on the circuit, where to start reducing speed and where to put the wheels and flaps down, and to watch the landing attitude, of course. He did a couple of circuits and bumps for me and that was all we had time for on that session.
Soon afterwards, he gave me a ride in the Lysander. That was quite an entertaining experience. It was an ugly-looking parasol-wing kite with a big, chattery radial engine, wonderful visibility due to the high wing, a fixed undercart and ultra-short take-off and landing runs. It was fitted with God knows what in the way of trick slots and flaps. Take-off was incredible, it made me want to laugh out loud.
“The important thing,” said Cliff as we stood ticking over, ready to roll, “is to make sure you’ve got your elevator trim central for take-off – this wheel right here.”
I leaned over his shoulder and looked at the aluminium wheel down below his left elbow. It was the size of a small, thick dinner-plate, with a bright red mark painted across the rim as a datum.
“If you don’t have that centralised, like it is now, you’ll try to loop as soon as she gets airborne, then we’ll be having a whip-round for a goddam wreath for you. So watch it, bud.”
“O.K., Cliff,” I said, “I’ve got you.”
“Let’s go, then, eh?” he said, and opened the throttle. We seemed to be airborne in about fifty yards and climbed like a lift in a hurry. The runway simply dropped away below us. Compared to the Wellington’s take-off it was simply unbelievable.
“Hell’s teeth!” I said, “She really wants to go, doesn’t she?”
“Sure does,” he replied happily.
Landing was equally impressive. It seemed you just closed the throttle and the Lizzie did the rest. She was designed for Army
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co-operation duties, to land in any small, flat field. And, of course, they were used extensively for the cloak-and-dagger stuff, putting in our agents to western Europe by night and picking up others, all by the light of the moon and a couple of hand torches: that must have been quite something.
Cliff turned into wind.
“No undercart to worry about,” he called.
Suddenly there was an almighty ‘clonk’ and I almost snapped the safety harness as I jumped involuntarily.
“What the hell was that?” I asked.
“No danger, just the slots popping out at low speed. Now see, I’ve got the elevator trim wound right back. Get it?”
“O.K.,” I said, “Got it.”
We lowered ourselves down on to the runway and rumbled to a halt in a few yards.
“Bloody marvellous!” I exclaimed, “some kite, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” said Cliff as we taxied in, “I wouldn’t mind one of these babies for myself, to take back home.”
“No trouble at all,” I replied, “they’ll be two a penny after the war, and with all the cash you’ve won at craps you’ll be able to afford a fleet of them.”
He laughed.
“Aw, well, we’ll have to see, when the time comes,” he said.
The time never came, of course.
You can guess who organised himself the first solo. You’re right, it was Shep.
“Ah’m flyin’ the bloody Lizzie in ten minutes,” he announced loudly, one day soon after, bustling into the hangar and crashing open his locker door.
“How’d you fix that?” Connie asked.
“Ah, well, Ah’m the best bloody pilot around here so Bill said it was only right Ah should have first bloody crack before either of you clumsy buggers bent it.”
“Get the Line-Book out!” I shouted, “Just listen to that – best pilot? You’re just a ham-fisted bus driver, you four-engined types are all alike!”
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“Steady on, Yoicks,” Connie said, “don’t include us all in that.”
“Well, some of you are ham-fisted,” I said. “Anyhow, let’s go and witness this demonstration of immaculate, text-book flying by our modest friend here.”
Shep grinned and slung his chute over his shoulder, then the three of us wandered down to the peri. track where our Lizzie was standing on the grass, looking quite docile and waiting for her pilot. Shep buckled his chute straps into the harness quick-release box, pulled on his helmet and heaved himself into the cockpit. Connie and I lit cigarettes while he started her up, ran up the engine and taxied out for take-off.
“When are you going to have a shot?” Connie asked.
“Tomorrow, in the Lizzie,” I replied, “I’m quite looking forward to it.”
Shep was ready for take-off. He opened her up and the bright yellow Lysander quivered and tolled, then she was airborne, climbing steeply and joyously. He took her nicely around the circuit, a much smaller one than the Wellington’s, of course. Connie and I watched critically, smoking and chatting. As he was on his landing approach Bill drifted along.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
“Bang on,” I said, “just coming in now.”
Shep landed and taxied round to the start of the runway again. He had done all right, we agreed. No reason why I shouldn’t, too, I thought. Hurry up, tomorrow.
He stopped to let a Wimpy take off. The contrast was grotesque, the bomber using most of the runway and climbing very shallowly away over the trees as it tucked its wheels up, leaving behind it a blur of oily, brownish-black smoke.
Shep moved on to the runway into position for takeoff. It was a lovely afternoon, hardly any wind, a few puffs of cumulus at about four thousand feet. There was a slight haze over the low hills beyond the railway station. We heard him open her up and she rolled. He’d hardly got the tail up before he was airborne, nose-high. Then he was climbing steeply, the engine howling, the kite hanging on its prop.
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“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Bill said, very distinctly, next to me. I simply stopped breathing and watched. We were going to see Shep die in front of our eyes and were completely unable to do a thing to help him. Then, at the moment when it seemed he would inevitably stall and crash into the middle of the aerodrome from less than a hundred feet, he somehow got the nose down, and as he did so, painfully raised the starboard wing. The crazy, fatal climb changed slowly, so terribly slowly, into a steep turn to port. Shep was in a series of tight turns, at full throttle, right over the centre of the runway at about fifty feet. Gradually, the turns slackened, the note of the screaming engine eased. He flew over us, very low, still turning to port, but now more or less in control, obviously winding the trimmer frantically forward.
“Bloody hell!” Connie gasped, “I thought he’d had it that time.” I could only gulp and nod. I felt for a cigarette with hands which were shaking so much I could hardly open the case. My knees felt like water. Bill sighed and said quietly, “I’m afraid he didn’t do his cockpit drill. He forgot the elevator trim.”
We said nothing, but watched as Shep came in to land.
“Let’s go,” Bill said.
We went back to the Flight Office. Five minutes later Shep bustled in, a bit red in the face. He dumped his chute and helmet on to a chair.
“Bloody Lizzies!” he exploded wrathfully, “that bloody trimmer wants modifying, it’s a bloody menace!”
We could only look at one another in silence and amazement. Surely he would admit to being in the wrong, just this once?
Next day, Bill called for Connie and I and silently handed us a memo from the Chief Instructor.
“With immediate effect,” it said, “Lysander and Defiant aircraft of ‘X’ Flight will be flown only by the following personnel.
F/L W. McCaughan,
F/O H. Ross,
F/Sgt C. Shnier.”
Bill, Hank and Cliff. I handed the memo back to Bill.
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“Yes, Bill,” I said, “O.K., fair enough.”
So we flew Wimpies up and down the range and liked it, and we watched Cliff hurling the Defiant into gloriously abandoned manoeuvres in the late summer sky while we flew straight and level. And we gritted our teeth, and we liked it. But now and again I had a sneaking little thought – I wondered what would have happened if that had been me up there instead of Shep. Would I still be bouncing around, like he still was, or …..?
I know, of course, what became of poor Connie, and every year on the anniversary of the day it happened, I visit him where he lies. What happened to Shep, I don’t know, but I’m prepared to bet that whatever it was, he would have had the last word, or, as he would put it, the last bloody word. But really, he wasn’t such a bad bloke. As I said to Connie, you just couldn’t knock him down, that was all.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] The pepper pot [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] THE PEPPER POT [/underlined]
It must have been a surprise to Connie as, just when we were about to climb up the ladder into the Wimpy one fine morning, he saw me fold into a heap at his feet. I can’t say it was much of a surprise to me, I hadn’t been feeling too brilliant for some time before that.
Things then moved very quickly. The M.O. saw me and whipped me off to London for a medical board, where I was told quite pleasantly that my flying days were over as far as the Royal Air Force was concerned, and I was asked what I would like to do. No promises, of course. I said, “Intelligence, in Bomber Command.” That seemed to them a reasonable idea, as far as I could make out.
Then followed several completely idle weeks in Brighton in mid-winter, waiting to see what was going to happen to me. My days’ work consisted of reporting to the Adjutant in the Metropole at nine a.m., asking, “Anything for me?” being told, “No”, and that was it until next morning, when the routine was repeated. I was billeted in a little hotel on King’s Road, facing the sea, with three or four other R.A.F. types and one or two R.A.A.F types. There were a few civilians there, too, among them the comedian Max Miller, who, off-stage seemed to me to be distinctly un-funny, if not downright anti-social.
I made friends with a couple of other pilots, Aussies, John Alexander and Don Benn, who were on their way home. Don had crashed in a Beaufighter and injured his legs – his M.O. had said he should play some golf to strengthen them. As he had been a stockman in outback Queensland, the idea of his playing golf was rather amusing both to him and to me. But, as an utter tyro myself, I agreed to go around the lovely course, up on the Downs near Rottingdean, with him. At night, John and I would paint the town red in a mild sort of way, sometimes exercising the legs of the local police force. I caught a glimpse, one day, of Hank Ross, doing penance, marching in a squad of aircrew types along the front. It depressed me greatly. Hank looked desperately unhappy. I waved to him and he acknowledged
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me with only a sad little smile. I thought that if he had waved back, he would probably have been sent to the Tower. It still seemed desperately unjust. I never saw Hank again.
Eventually my course came through, to an Intelligence training centre in a big old house in Highgate. Some fairly hush-hush stuff went on there and we were forbidden to talk to anyone who wasn’t on our own course of about twenty. But one evening, in the anteroom, I was delighted and amazed to see dear old Tim, and made a bee-line for him, rules or no rules. We chatted for a few minutes until someone intervened. Next day I was kept behind after a lecture and given a severe reprimand, and although I saw Tim several times after that, I never spoke to him again while we were there. Not until we met, at Niagara Falls, almost fifty years later – two survivors.
During this time, Alan was called up for training amd [sic] I discovered he had reported to an Aircrew Reception Centre at St. John’s Wood. We met for half a day, had a long talk, a visit to the flicks and a meal at a strange and deserted Greek restaurant somewhere near Covent Garden.
The end of March found me posted as an Intelligence Officer to Linton-on-Ouse, where there were two Halifax Squadrons, one commanded, as I discovered when I arrived, by Wing Commander Leonard Cheshire. Soon afterwards, the Canadians were about to take over Linton and I accompanied one of the Squadrons to Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, in east Yorkshire. After a couple of weeks there, the S.I.O. decided that they were rather short-handed at the satellite Station, Breighton, where the other Squadron from Linton had settled in. So there, among the farm buildings of the nondescript but not unpleasant hamlet of Breighton, I put down roots for a few months. And there I met J - .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I was pinning up the bombing photos of the previous night’s raid when I noticed he was there again. the Intelligence Library, no matter how we tried to dress it up, was never all that well-populated, and that morning was no exception. The photos usually drew a few
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interested crew members, Tee Emm was invariably popular, but the other stuff was really a bit on the dull side. There wasn’t, for example, a tremendous rush for the Bomber Command Intelligence Digest. Most of the crews, anyhow, were sleeping off last night’s trip, or last night’s session in the local, whichever was applicable.
This little gunner, though, I had seen him in there several times before, always at the same table near the door. It made me wonder. I suppose it was rather obtuse of me not to have cottoned, especially in view of my own feelings about J - . Anyhow, when I had put up the photos I went over to him, more out of curiosity than anything.
“Hello,” I said to him, “did you want something?”
He hesitated, then said, “I suppose – “
“Yes?”
“I suppose Sergeant S – isn’t on duty, is she?
I saw it all, then. One of our W.A.A.F. Watchkeepers, Billie S – was very much sought after for dates, and, it must be admitted, slightly blasé about the whole business. Rumour had it she was the daughter of a fairly high-ranking Army Officer in the Middle East. She was an extremely pleasant girl, blue-eyed, blonde and very nicely shaped, with a calm, almost angelic manner and a vibrant, husky voice which could send the odd shiver up your spine when she used it in conjunction with those big blue eyes of hers. But not my type. Now J - , one of the other two Watchkeepers, she was a different matter entirely. I had the feeling I was going to like Breighton very much indeed, even though I’d only been there just over a week.
“Sergeant S - ?” I said to him, “do you want to see her?”
(Bloody silly question, I thought, of course he did.)
“Well, if I could, just for a minute, if it’s no trouble.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I went back into the Ops. Room. Billie was purring at someone on the telephone and even then, unconsciously using her china-blue eyes expressively. Apart from her, there was only Margaret, one of the Int. Clerks, writing industriously. Billie hung up finally. I said, “Billie, there’s a gunner in the Int. Library would like
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a word with you.”
She wrinkled her nose just a little and said, “who is it, sir? Not that Sergeant P - ?”
“Don’t know his name,” I replied, “smallish chap, though, in Sergeant – ‘s crew, if I remember rightly.”
“Yes, that sounds like him, Johnny P - ,” she answered, with a faint sigh. She shrugged her shoulders and with a lift of her immaculately plucked eyebrows she said, “Would you mind, very much, sir?”
She sounded resigned.
“No, you go right ahead,” I said with a grin, “mind he doesn’t chew your ears off, though.”
She laughed quietly and went out, smoothing down her skirt over her hips as she went. Margaret was smiling quietly to herself and I cleared my throat rather noisily and started to sort out a pile of new target maps, mostly of Hamburg, I noticed. My tea had gone cold and I cursed it. Margaret looked up and laughed.
“Shall I get you some more, sir?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Margaret, there’s a dear.”
She went out into the little store-room-cum-kitchen between the Ops. Room and the Int. Library, which we had been told recently to empty as far as possible. This had intrigued us greatly, but we asked no questions.
Billie came back, patting her blonde hair and looking a little flushed.
“Well,” I said, “have you been fighting like a tigress for your honour?”
“Oh, nothing like that, sir,” she replied with a smile, and left it at that, which was fair enough. Nothing at all to do with me, really. Margaret came back with teas all round. The war could continue. Billie got behind her switchboard, handed me a cigarette and did her usual pocket-emptying routine in search of a comb or a lipstick or something, as I lit her cigarette. The stuff that girl carried around with her.
The moon period came around and there weren’t any ops for a few days. Funny to think that when I had been operating a full moon was popularly known as a “bombers’ moon”. Now it was shunned as
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being too helpful to the German night-fighters. We more or less caught up with the outstanding stuff; the Watchkeepers got the S.D. 300 slap up to date and Pam spent a bit of time in the Library putting up some new stuff on the notice boards and going over some bomb-plots with the crews from the photos they had come back with. She mentioned casually that one of the gunners seemed to be spending a lot of time in there. I merely said “Oh, yes?” and looked blankly at her.
I got to know J – a little better during this time, and I knew that this was it. I was very pleased to see that she didn’t have an engagement ring on her finger. Our conversations progressed imperceptibly from one hundred per cent “shop” to a slightly more personal level. I found I was looking forward more and more to the times when she would be on duty, and I tried to fiddle it so that I was on at the same times. I also found that I was looking forward less than usual to my next leave, which would take me away from her for a week.
One afternoon, when things were quiet, I asked J – how Billie was coping with Johnny.
“Well, he’s very persistent,” she said, “he wants a date with her, but she’s doing her best to stall him off. Poor kid, what he really wants is his mother, you know.”
I nodded thoughtfully; I hadn’t seen it quite like that.
“So is Billie going to date him?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know what she’ll decide,” J – said, “she’s tried her best to head him off, and all that, but he just shakes his head and keeps asking her to go out with him just once; what can she do?”
“Knowing Billie, I’m sure she’ll think of something,” I said, and we smiled at one another. I little suspected what in fact she was thinking of. Had I known, I would have slept less at nights than I was already doing, for various reasons.
Of course, I was thinking along the lines of asking J – for a date, too, but I was worried about rushing things. I had to pick my moment and I wasn’t sure just how to recognise when it had come. I would lie awake thinking it over, and thinking about J - , which just shows you what sort of state I was in.
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Two or three nights later I was on duty with Freda, the third of the Watchkeepers. Our aircraft had just gone off and we were relaxing a bit and wondering if we’d get any early returns. Freda had just finished phoning the captains’ names and take-off times through to Base at Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, along the road about eight miles, when the phone rang.
“It’s Billie, for you, sir,” Freda said.
“For me, Freda?”
“Yes, sir, she asked for you.”
I thought Billie must have forgotten to finish something on her last shift and wanted to square it with me, or get Freda to do it while she was on duty.
“Hello, Billie,” I said into the phone, “what’s the gen?”
“Oh, hello, sir,” came her creamy, purring voice, “can I ask you a favour?”
I still thought it was going to be something to do with work.
“Of course,” I answered blithely, little knowing that my whole life was in the process of being changed from that very second.
“Well, sir, I’ve got a date with someone tomorrow night, and to be perfectly honest about it, I’d rather make it into a foursome. So would you be willing to come along?”
“Hell’s teeth, Billie,” I said, “this is a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? But never mind, yes, O.K., you can count me in on it.”
“Oh, thank you very much, I knew you wouldn’t let me down, it’s such a load off my mind. You’re sure you’ve no objections?”
“No, of course I don’t mind, I’m game for anything,” I said brightly. “It isn’t Johnny, by any chance, is it?”
“Well, sir, as a matter of fact, it is,” she said confidentially. “I couldn’t very well get out of it and I thought it would be best if I tried to organise a foursome – the Londesborough Arms in Selby, if that’s all right with you. By the way, I’ve got some transport laid on from the W.A.A.F. guardroom to get us there, seven o’clock, assuming there’s a stand-down, of course, but we’ll have to make our own way back, so it’s bikes all round. We can push them on to the lorry to go to Selby.”
“Sounds bang-on,” I said.
Billie started to make end-of-conversation noises and was obviously about to hang up on me.
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“Just hold on a sec., Billie,” I chipped in quickly, “there’s just one small detail I’d like to get clear – who am I taking along?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, sir,” she said airily, “I’m sure I can find someone nice for you. Thank you very much indeed.”
She put the phone down.
I lit a cigarette and drank a mug of tea thoughtfully, letting my imagination give me a pleasant few minutes until we got a call from Flying Control that we had an early return coming back. So, for the time being, at any rate, I put the thought of my blind date aside. When the main body of our aircraft came back, one of the crews I interrogated happened to be that of Johnny P - . His pilot was a chunky bloke with a staccato manner. Johnny just sat there quietly smoking and saying nothing, but looking silently into infinity, as though he’d never seen me, or his crew, before. It was a bit weird. Finally, Pam, Derek and I got the Raid Report completed and bunged it off to Holme by D.R. I got to bed about 0400.
I was awake again with just about enough time to cycle down to breakfast. It was a miserable morning, ten-tenths low cloud and raining like the clappers. But J – was on duty and the day seemed to brighten when I saw here. Pam was photo-plotting as hard as she could and I got my head down, alongside her, over the mosaic photograph, about four feet by three, of last night’s target. No-one said very much. The blackboard had been cleaned off, in readiness for the next one. The photo-plotting took a long time, there was so little ground detail on the crews’ pictures due to cloud-cover over the target. About ten-thirty we got a stand-down through; J – phoned it around to those who were concerned. Buy lunch time we’d only plotted about half a dozen photos. One thing about the Ruhr – if you missed the aiming-point you usually hit something or other in the way of a built-up area. It was a consolation.
At lunchtime the rain had eased and there were even a few breaks in the cloud to the west. Derek took over from me about two-thirty and promptly plotted one of the photos to within a couple of hundred yards of the A.P., from a sliver of ground detail you could hardly see.
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“Beginner’s luck,” I said laughingly, and went off for a sleep. I hit the mattress and knew no more for a couple of hours. When I awoke, it took me a few seconds to remember that I was going on a blind date that evening, but suddenly I felt unreasonably, unaccountably happy, swept along by a wave of well-being which had me whistling “Tuxedo Junction” and singing snatches of “Sally Brown” as I got myself spruced up and into my best blue. I don’t know why I should have felt like that; possibly as someone once said, the mood of flying men changes with the weather, and outside, I saw that the sky had cleared to a beautiful evening.
“Sally Brown is a bright mulatto,” I sang,
“Way, hey, we roll and go –
“She drinks rum and chews tobacco,
“Spend my money on Sally Brown!”
Which started me wondering, again, who my date would be. I honestly hadn’t a clue, Billie had given me no inkling whatsoever, but I trusted her implicitly not to saddle me with some worthy but plain girl who would spend the evening painfully tongue-tied and twisting her fingers together. Never mind, I thought, it’s quite a change for me and at least we might all have one or two laughs together and try to forget about ops and casualties for a couple of hours. At five to seven I was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, twenty yards or so from the W.A.A.F. guardroom, and trying also to think up a convincing story to tell the W.A.A.F. (G) Officer if she should appear and want to know what I was doing. As I was looking at my watch for the third or fourth time I heard a soft, musical voice say, “Hello, are we each other’s date?” and there she was, there was J - , looking quite wonderful.
My heart skipped a couple of beats, I could feel myself blushing scarlet and I found I was grinning foolishly. I managed to stammer something trite, or perhaps merely stupid. Anyhow, J – laughed, and I laughed with her, more or less in relief. I felt a bridge had been crossed, or at least, built.
Everything happened pretty swiftly after that. Billie and Johnny P – cycled breathlessly up, a fifteen-hundredweight lorry with several
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assorted aircrew on board screeched to a halt, and accompanied by a chorus of piercing wolf-whistles, Johnny and I loaded the four cycles on to the lorry, helped the girls up and scrambled aboard ourselves. Loud cries of “Let’s get airborne!” and “Chocks away!” and we were off, racing over the wet roads under the trees, through the village, being thrown companionably and tightly against one another as the driver took corners at some speed, and away to Selby, the nearest town of any size.
It turned out to be rather a dingy little place, I thought, but the pub itself was clean and surprisingly quiet, no Breighton types, or indeed no uniforms at all, apart from ours, to be seen. The evening went by in a blur which was only partly due to the intake of alcohol. Billie was her usual polished and poised self and Johnny never took his eyes off her. He looked like a thirsty man approaching an oasis. Such an unremarkable little chap to look at, a mere five feet six or seven, mousy, rather untidy brown hair, slim built like we all were on wartime rations and high levels of stress, but with an infectious grin which would suddenly light up his plain features.
What J – and I talked about I cannot for the life of me remember; I was completely bowled over by the simple fact of listening to her cool, musical voice. I think we talked about books and cricket, but had we simply sat in silence, that would have ensured my complete happiness, merely to be at her side, in her charming company. Considering the rationing position, we had a very good meal in the small, half-empty dining room. I remember how spotlessly white the tablecloth was. Johnny demonstrated his talents as an amateur conjuror, palming small objects and plucking them out of our ears, and so on. We had all had two or three drinks by then and our laughter came fairly freely. He did one small, silly trick with the chromium pepper pot, holding it between his fingers and rushing it down towards the table in the representation of a bomb’s rushing it down towards the table in the representation of a bomb’s trajectory, with the accompanying piercing whistle. We all duly made “boom” noises when it hit the cloth – except that it didn’t, it was no longer to be seen.
Eventually it was time to go. We undid the locks on our cycles in the twilight of the summer evening, and by tacit agreement, split
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up into two couples. J – and I didn’t hurry, tomorrow could take care of itself and we never saw Billie and Johnny again that evening. On the way back we stopped at a field-gate by the edge of a copse and leaned our elbows on the top bar, side by side, to watch the sickle moon slowly rise. One or two aircraft droned distantly in the starry vault of the darkening sky and we followed the nav. lights of one of them until they vanished into the haze and all was silent again, except for some small animal rustling his nocturnal way through the undergrowth. We didn’t talk much, I think we were both content with the magic of the still night and with each other’s presence and new-found companionship.
As we stood there, I tentatively put my arm around her shoulders and that small overture was not repulsed. We talked about Johnny.
“Do you know any of his crew?” I asked J - .
“Some of them,” she answered, “they seem nice lads. Johnny’s lucky to have a crew like that.”
“Yes,” I said, “he is. It’s a very special sort of relationship, there’s nothing quite like it.”
She turned to look at me.
“Your own crew, do you keep in touch with them?”
So I told her. She put a hand on my arm.
“I’m dreadfully sorry, I really had no idea that had happened.”
We cycled back to Breighton. I felt a great peace stealing over me. We stopped at the now deserted road by the W.A.A.F. guardroom.
“It’s been a lovely evening,” J – said, “thank you so much for it.”
“I’m the one who should thank you,” I said, “for putting up with me.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t say that, please. Anyhow, I must go now.”
She hesitated. Her lips, when I kissed her, were cool and sweet, like dew on a rosebud.
The next morning Base Ops., in the shape of Flight Lieutenant Smith, came on the phone.
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“Is that you, Breighton?” he asked in his dried-up schoolmaster’s voice. He would seldom, if ever, call you by your own name, you were only “Breighton” to him. I sometimes wondered what he called his pupils and more especially, whether he called his wife by her surname. So I was always deliberately and exaggeratedly casual in reply to him, just to irritate him.
“Yeah, Smithy, this is the Acting Unpaid Senior Int./Ops Officer, at your service. What can I do you for?”
Smithy was not amused. He sniffed loudly.
“We’re sending you some parcels. Store them in your little kitchen place, or whatever you call it. Don’t open them. That’s important, but keep them under lock and key until you’re told what to do with them, and keep the key on your person at all times. Is that understood?”
“Cloak and dagger stuff, eh, Smithy?”
He sniffed again and went on.
“Expect them in about half an hour. They go under the name “Window.” Is that quite clear, Breighton?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
He rang off and I mused a little, wondering what on earth it could be that was so secret and new.
A sheeted-over lorry arrived from Holme and we started to unload the innocent-looking brown-paper parcels, the size of shoe boxes, and quite heavy, too. We all pitched in and got the lorry emptied eventually. By this time you could just about squeeze up to the sink in there to make the tea. Which one of the girls did, as we needed some by then. I dutifully locked the door on the bundles but I could see this was going to be a real bind, so we laid on tea-making facilities with the W.A.A.F.s in the telephone exchange, next to the Ops Room, and moved our few mugs and kettle and so on in with them.
When things had quietened down and I thought no-one would notice particularly, I slipped quietly in to the Window Store, as I was now mentally calling it, locked the door carefully behind me and took down one of the parcels. Very carefully I made a small slit in one corner of the wrapping paper so that it would look like accidental damage. I looked inside. There were hundreds, or perhaps thousands,
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of what seemed to be paper strips, about an inch wide and a foot or so long, matt black on one side, silvered on the other. My first thought was that they were some new form of incendiary device. I sniffed them – no smell. What on earth could they be? Was it something to dazzle the searchlights, then? In that case, why weren’t both sides shiny? I could get no further with my theorising, but as it happened I was somewhere on approximately the right lines. I carefully replaced the bundle and went back into the Ops Room, not forgetting to lock the door behind me as I left the thousands of bundles of Window. I put on an innocent expression and started to whistle “Sally Brown”.
“Quite a nice day out there,” I said. I wonder if I fooled them.
The mysterious Window wasn’t a mystery for much longer. A couple of days later we got a target through, quite early on, which was a sign that the weather was going to be settled. Hamburg. Hence all those new target maps. And when the operational gen came through, bomb load, route and timings and so on, right at the end was the magic word Window. It was to be carried by all aircraft. The number of bundles per aircraft was stated, as were the points on the route where dropping was to start and finish. The dropping height and the rate of dropping was stated, everything was laid down. Then we guessed it. It was a radar-foxing thing.
“Let’s hope it works,” we said to one another.
Derek did the briefing and I went along to listen, sensing that this might be an historic occasion. The Station Commander stood up on the platform first, and conversation stopped abruptly. He looked slowly around the blacked out briefing room in the Nissen hut. You could have heard a pin drop.
“Gentlemen,” he said, very slowly and quietly, “the intention of tonight’s operation is to destroy the city of Hamburg.”
The silence was so intense you could almost feel it. He went on to say that they would be carrying a new device which would save us many casualties if it was used strictly in accordance with instructions, and he told them about Window, which was designed to swamp the enemy radar screens with hundreds of false echoes, each one looking like a four-engined bomber.
Well, as far as Breighton was concerned, it worked like a charm that night. When the crews came back, and the Squadron’s all did,
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they were highly elated about the results of the attack and the lack of opposition. Few fighters had been sighted, flak was wildly inaccurate and spasmodic and the searchlights were completely disorganised and erratic. The photographs proved their elation was well-founded.
Three days later it was Hamburg again, and my turn to brief them. I caught a glimpse of Johnny, sitting about three rows back, still with that distant look on his face, as though this had nothing to do with him. I mentioned this to J – when we met on night duty, the first time I had seen her since the night we had gone to Selby.
“I’ve noticed it, too,” she said, “I don’t know what it is with him. Maybe it’s because of Billie, of course, he’s absolutely overboard for her. She’s changed too, she’s gone much quieter than she was.”
“Yes, I’d noticed that,” I said, “funny what love does to you, isn’t it?”
I gave J – a sideways look. She had coloured just a little, but smiled and said nothing. We were in the lull before take-off time. We talked about the possible effects of Window on this second raid on Hamburg. We did not know it at the time, of course, but this night was to be known as the night of the fire-storm, when hurricane-force winds, caused by the immense uprush of air from the fires, were to sweep their flame-saturated way through the city, even uprooting trees which had stood in their path. And there were still two further raids to come in the next week, plus an American daylight attack thrown in for good measure.
“Did you notice the bomb-load was almost all incendiaries?” I asked J - .
“Yes, I did,” she replied, “I wouldn’t be in Hamburg tonight for all the tea in China; imagine, almost eight hundred aircraft with full loads of incendiaries.”
“Make them think a bit,” I said. “You know, J - , what I can’t understand is why they just don’t give in now, surrender while they’ve still got some towns which are fit to live in; it’s quite obvious that we’re just going to work our way through the list one by one and flatten all his cities – I can’t think why he will just allow this to happen.”
We talked, smoked and drank tea far into the night. When they came back, the crews’ elation was now tinged with awe. No-one had
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ever seen such tremendous fires, “a sea of flame” was a common description by the crews, with a smoke pall towering to above twenty thousand feet; you could smell it in the aircraft, some said.
It was either on one of the big Hamburg raids or very soon afterwards that Johnny P – ‘s crew did not come back. I have to admit, in shame, that they were, as far as my feelings were concerned, just one of the many that we lost – all good, brave lads, but now almost anonymous in their terrible numbers, like the headstones in a war-graves cemetery seen from a distance. I knew only few of them personally; when it happened, I felt the pang of the loss, but the impact was not so great, God forgive me, as that of the loss of a crew on my own Squadron, of men whom I had been flying alongside, or with. Perhaps there is a limit to the sorrow one can truly absorb and bear, perhaps a saturation point is reached when the loss of men becomes a ghastly normality, where the mind begins to accept it as part of the natural order of things. But later – then it will suddenly all strike home in some unguarded moment, with full savage impact, as it has done, many times since.
When the last crew had been interrogated the night that Johnny went missing I saw Billie standing to one side, pale as chalk, gazing wordlessly at the faces around her, waiting for Johnny, who would never bother her again. I went over to her and touched her shoulder.
“Try to get some sleep, Billie,” I said, “he may have landed away, you know.”
It was all I could say. She nodded miserably.
She was on duty next morning, when we started the photo-plotting, tense, deadly pale, her eyes haunted by heaven knows what dreadful visions. I had given her a cigarette and taken one myself when the clerk handed me something or other and distracted my efforts to produce my lighter. Billie said quietly, “I’ll get mine,” and, typically, dumped a load of stuff from her pocket on to the desk. It wasn’t a lighter which she’d got out, though, it was a chromium pepper pot. I froze. She clapped a handkerchief to her mouth and rushed blindly out of the Ops Room as we sat silent and motionless.
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Later that day I met J – outside the village church.
“Shall we go inside?” she said.
We stepped into the dimness of the nave. My mind was still on Johnny.
“The way he looked,” I said softly to J - , “do you think perhaps he knew?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps he did.”
It was cool and quiet in there. J – knelt in a pew and bowed her head; I knelt alongside her so that our sleeves touched. Somehow, I felt I needed that nearness of her. A Prayer Book was at each place; there was just enough light left to read. I opened the book and came upon Psalm 91.
“Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day. A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.”
J – ‘s face was calm, next to me, as I thought of Johnny, and of all the others. After a while I closed the book and slowly stood up. I took J – gently by the hand and we walked out, shutting the heavy oak door behind us, into the dim, evening green-ness of the churchyard and the faraway sound of engines in the summer twilight, as the first stars were beginning to appear.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Approach and Landing. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] APPROACH AND LANDING [/underlined]
With the inevitablity [sic] of an experience of déja vu, it unrolled itself with preordained certainty in my dream, as completely familiar as the action of a film one has seen often before, slowly remembering it in all its detail, and on waking and thinking afresh about it, I realised with some surprise that I had never written about, or even spoken to anyone about this particular event – since the time that J – and I talked about it, that is – one which both at the time it happened and since that time, I had always privately marvelled – and shuddered at what might have been.
At night in the Ops. Room at Breighton, once 78 Squadron’s Halifaxes had taken off there was little to do for whoever was on duty. Normally there was one Int./Ops. Officer – that is, Pam, Derek or myself – one duty Watchkeeper, a W.A.A.F. Sergeant, Billie, Freda or J - , and an Ops. Clerk. There was time to catch up on all sorts of things which of necessity had to be shelved during the process of assisting perhaps twenty or so aircraft to take off, adequately prepared and correctly informed, to bomb some target in the Third Reich. There was, naturally, time to chat, time to drink tea and to smoke endless cigarettes while the hours crawled by until the tension of the time of the first aircraft due into the circuit approached. And when J – and I were on duty together (and I took some pains to ensure that we often were) the conversations were naturally more relaxed, more personal.
It was on one such occasion, when the names of people one had known in the Service were casually dropped into the talk like snowflakes on to a pond, to exist for an instant and then to vanish and to be almost forgotten, that one name struck a chord between us.
I mentioned F – ‘s name quite casually, as that of someone I had known well by sight but not personally, a pilot on our sister Squadron at Binbrook eighteen months before, and who was the central character in a very highly skilled but very high-risk piece of flying which I had witnessed from, literally, a grandstand seat, and which, these many years later, was the subject of my dream.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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At Binbrook, when operations were on, it was necessary to have what was termed a Despatching Officer, one who was not flying on that operation. He was provided with a light van and a driver, and was to ensure that in this van there was contained every conceivable piece of necessary equipment which any member of any crew flying on the operation was likely to find to be unserviceable or to have forgotten prior to takeoff – articles such as flying helmet, goggles, oxygen mask, intercom. leads, the various essential maps and charts, and so on. In the event of a sudden radio call from an aircraft to the Flying Control Officer on duty in the Watch Office that some such was required. The Despatching Officer would be driven rapidly to the relevant aircraft’s dispersal to deliver the required piece of equipment.
On one particular late winter’s afternoon, although both Squadrons were operating, my own crew was not among those detailed. And I was designated on the Battle Order as Despatching Officer. There was, as it happened, no call for my services and the Wellingtons started to take off, using one of the shorter runs, roughly north-west to south-east and passing within two or three hundred yards of the Watch Office. Once that I was certain that nothing was required, I went into the Watch Office and up on to the balcony to watch the aircraft taking off, bound for some target – I cannot recall which – across the North Sea.. All had left the ground and were on their way, vanishing into the evening sky to the east, when there was a call over the R/T from one of them which had just crossed the English coast. It was that piloted by F - .
One of his main undercarriage wheels, the port wheel, could not be retracted. He was climbing away with one wheel locked into the ‘up’ position and one which would not join it. Apparently he could neither retract the wheel which was locked down nor lower again the wheel that was retracted. He was carrying a 4000 lb. High Capacity blast bomb, irreverently and casually known to us as a ‘Cookie’. His Commanding Officer, watching take-off from the Watch Office, called him up on the R/T and ordered him to jettison the Cookie into the North Sea, then to return to the aerodrome to attempt what would have been, in any case, a fairly hazardous
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landing with a full petrol load. But it was the only possible and sensible procedure in these unfortunate and unhappy circumstances.
But F – was very much his own man. I knew him, from a distance, almost as the reincarnation of a cavalier of King Charles’ day, dark, good looking, dashing, individualistic, the complete extrovert. He might well have served as the model for Frans Hals’ “The Laughing Cavalier”. He replied – to his C.O., mark you – that he intended to bring his bomb back with him. Then, apparently, Wing Commander K - , his C.O. and he exchanged words and observations of some sort. But F - , literally in the driving seat, was adamant and persuasive enough to have his way. We waited rather breathlessly for what might transpire, as well as what his C.O. might say to him, should he, in fact manage to return safely.
After a short while, all the aircraft operating having cleared the area, we heard the note of F – ‘s Twin Wasp engines, as noisy as four Harvards, which is saying something. He appeared on the circuit, a grotesque and unsettling sight. To those of us who have flown aircraft, especially Wellingtons, it is an almost unconscious reaction on seeing any aircraft in the air, to project oneself, as it were, into the cockpit, holding the controls, glancing at the blind-flying panel’s telltale instruments, and in this case, in F – ‘s case, seeing the wretched sight of one green light and two reds in the trio of small undercarriage warning light on the dashboard.
There were now five or six of us on the Watch Office balcony and we watched tensely as F – steadily made his circuit and, throttling back, commenced his final approach. His particular aircraft, in common with a few on both Squadrons’ strengths, had been modified to carry a ‘cookie’, which was essentially a railway locomotive boiler, thin-skinned and packed with high explosive. The bomb was too deep to be accommodated in the normal Wellington bomb-bay, so the modification consisted in suspending it in a rectangular hole like an upturned, lidless coffin without bomb-doors, in the underside of the aircraft. And the bomb was by no means flush with the aircraft’s belly, it protruded, throughout its entire length, by several inches, horrifyingly open to flak, machine gun bullets, cannon-shells – or a belly landing. The sensitivity of the weapon was legendary, the name “blockbuster” applied
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to it by the press was completely apposite.
So F – made his approach, one wheel up, one down, a grotesque and unpleasant sight, the cookie protruding ominously. Why we stood there watching, goodness only knows. Perhaps we were simply too fascinated to move or perhaps we were quite unthinking as to what the outcome might be, should there be an accident, a bad landing, and the cookie were to explode. If that had been the case, I would not be writing this. Or perhaps we were just plain stupid or reckless not to have sought cover.
The aircraft slowly slid down its final approach in the quickly-fading daylight. We watched and waited, almost holding our breath. I remember lighting a cigarette with a hand which was not altogether steady. Then, holding the starboard wing over the ‘missing’ wheel well up, F – touched down, it must have been lightly, on the port wheel only, the engines throttled back to a tick-over. Miraculously, he kept the aircraft straight. We hardly dared look at the protruding cookie. As the Wellington slowed the starboard wing slowly drooped, and finally, at the end of the aircraft’s run, the wing finally scraped the runway, the Wellington slewed around through ninety degrees to starboard and came to a lopsided rest. The fire tender and ‘blood wagon’ raced up, but neither, thankfully, were needed.
It would be trite to say that we breathed again but I am sure that there were some of us who in the final seconds of the touch-down and landing run were actually holding our breath. We stood there, the small group of us, on the balcony, potentially exposed to what would have been a blast-wave of killing proportions not only for us, but for many quite far distant from the runway. Perhaps the fact that we stayed to watch was even due a degree of professional interest in the expertise of one of our peers. But the visual memory of F – ‘s landing that evening has remained with me as something at which to marvel.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Oh! Did you know F - , then?” J – asked, that night in the quiet Ops. Room at Breighton.
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“Only by sight” I replied, then I told her about the landing.
“I will never forget that, I assure you. You knew him, too, then?” I added. J – nodded.
“Oh yes, who didn’t? He was quite a character, wasn’t he?”
“’Was’?”
“Yes. Perhaps you didn’t know he had been killed at --- .” She named an aerodrome not too far distant.
Apparently F – had taken off on a non-operational flight. On board was also an A.T.A. girl pilot and the aircraft had, for some unknown reason, crashed, killing everyone on board. J – mentioned that there was a certain theory concerning something which might have been a contributory factor to the tragedy. I will not set down here what that theory was. But I shall continue to remember F – as I knew him at Binbrook, debonair, dashing, cavalier-like and above all, just that bit larger than life, and possessed of flying skills to which few of us could ever hope to aspire.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Knight’s move [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] KNIGHT’S MOVE [/underlined]
“One sang in the evening
Before the light was gone:
And the earth was lush with plenty
Where the sun shone.
The sound in the twilight
Went: and the earth all thin
Leans to a wind of winter,
The sun gone in.
One song the less to sing
And a singer less
Who sleeps all in the lush of plenty
And summer dress.”
“Casualty”
from “Selected Poems” by
Squadron Leader John Pudney.
Once I had seen the hangar, intact, black and huge, just over the hedge as I rounded the bend of the lane, everything seemed to fall into place, even after so many years.
Everything, except, of course, that J – was gone. I shut my eyes for a moment and forced my thoughts away from her. God knew what became of Pam, and as for Derek, I never heard of him for years after I left Breighton. But now I had, for the first time, come back. Seeking what? I could find no answer to that in my mind, except that I had obeyed some inner compulsion to revisit the place and that somehow it seemed to bring me some peace and calm of spirit to be back there amid the quiet hedges, the ruined buildings, the memories, and the silent, empty sky, where among so many losses I had, with deep feelings of the unique guilt of the survivor, found
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my personal happiness when so many had lost everything, for ever.
I walked down the empty road in the warm October sunshine, past what remained of the East-West runway, and marvelled at the utter silence. The little river at the edge of the road slipped silently over its green weeds and I remembered Gerry, how he had aborted a takeoff one night, smashed through the hedge and across the road and had finished up with the aircraft’s nose almost in that river. Amazingly, they had missed everything solid and had all walked away from it. I smiled to myself as I recalled how everyone in the Mess had kidded him about it the following morning.
The Mess itself was till there, pretty well intact. One or two broken panes in the windows, the buff-coloured walls reflecting the warmth of the sun, the porch by now overgrown with tall weeds around which a bee idly buzzed. Now, no bicycles leaned against its walls, there was no C.O.’s car parked, no battledressed figures walked in and out, calling to one another – there was just the brilliant sunshine and the utter silence. And then, as I visualised the inside of the Mess, its layout, its half-remembered faces; I thought of the events of such another day of sunshine all that time ago. I saw the interior of the anteroom, the small table with the chessmen on their board, the young bomb-aimer sitting opposite me, frowning with concentration as we played, then looking at his watch and standing up reluctantly, the cracked record, “I’ve gotta gal, in Kalamazoo”. “Shall we finish it tomorrow?” I had said to him.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
My part of the briefing came second, as usual, after the Wingco had told them the target and shown them over the route on the wall-map. Most of the crews weren’t really interested in the industries, population or the other standard Intelligence gen which I served up to them, and I didn’t blame them; their main concern was what the defences were like – and, privately, whether they would get back. They were silent when I pointed out the flak and searchlight belt around the target, and a few night-fighter aerodromes near to their route. There were one or two whistles when I told them
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how many aircraft were on that night; it was quite a big effort and craftily organised so that there were two targets, the stream of kites splitting up abreast of and between the two towns, then turning away from each other to attack their respective targets some sixty miles apart. There were also elaborate Mosquito spoof attacks to draw off the enemy fighters from the main force.
“We hope that will fox the defences,” I concluded.
When briefing was over I left the hubbub and snatches of nervous laughter from the crews and cycled down to the Ops Room in the summer afternoon to try to finish plotting last night’s bombing photos. One of our Halifaxes was on his landing approach, another was on the downwind leg with his undercart lowered. One of their engines was slightly desynchronised and it made a throbbing note above the steady roar. The sun was very bright, the trees were a deep green above the huts and the houses of the village and it was warm.
One of the bombing photos was holding us up. There was only a small fragment of ground detail, more or less one block of houses, visible in the usual mess of smoke, cloud, bomb bursts, flak and fires. Pam was having a go at it when I arrived.
“Any luck?” I asked, throwing my cap on the table.
“Not yet,” she said, “but it must be somewhere near the aiming point because there’s so much going on in the photograph.”
We stewed over the mosaic for a time, trying to fit the photo in, which would enable us to discover where the aircraft had dropped his load of bombs. Pam looked along the approach side to the A.P., I took the exit side. Finally, I had it placed.
“Oh, good,” Pam said rather wearily, and stretched.
I measured the distance carefully.
“Can you give him a ring in the Mess, Freda?” I asked the duty Watchkeeper, “he’ll be wanting to know. Tell whoever you speak to that they were about a thousand yards from the A.P., would you?”
After that, we generally tidied up from last night’s effort, and as far as we could, from tonight’s preparations. I did a last minute check that the Pundit was in the right place and set to flash the correct letters, and that the resin lights on the aircraft were the correct colour combination. About six o’clock I went down to the Mess, put my feet up and relaxed. There were several battledressed and white sweatered chaps clumping about in their heavy, soft-soled flying boots, trying not to smoke too much, mostly a bit pale and rather quiet.
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Dinner was much as usual, no-one had very much to say to anyone else, at least among the crews who were on. Derek came in and said he was going up to relieve Pam on duty.
“See you before take-off,” I told him.
“What the heck for?” Derek asked, “there’s no need – why don’t you get some sleeping hours in till they come back?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I might as well be up there,” I said, not wanting him to know that J – and I had a sort of thing starting. I hoped so, anyhow. She would be taking over from Freda about now. I’d taken her out a couple of times and I thought she was pretty wizard; we seemed to speak the same language. Had to be a bit careful, though, the R.A.F. was touchy about male Officer – W.A.A.F. N.C.O. relationships. You could easily find that one of you was suddenly posted to Sullom Voe or somewhere like that, and the other to Portreath, or worse still, overseas.
I went into the anteroom. Someone had the radiogram going. It was Glenn Miller and the Chattanooga choo-choo on Track 29. I settled down with Tee Emm at a table where someone had left the chess board and pieces, and was chuckling over P/O Prune’s latest effort when a voice said, “Do you play?”
I looked up. He was a P/O Bomb-aimer, rather stocky, darkish, with his name on the small brown leather patch sewn above the top right-hand pocket of his battledress, his white, roll-necked sweater and half-wing looked rather new, I thought.
“Sure,” I said, “but not very well, I’m afraid. I’ll give you a game, though, if you like.”
“I’m not very good myself,” he said.
As we were setting out the pieces, “Who are you with?” I asked. He named his skipper.
“He’s good; flies these Hallies like Spits!” he said, laughing. For an instant, the lines of stress on his face were smoothed out in the snatched and fleeting relaxation of the moment, so that instead of looking like a young man, he looked like a very young one.
“Yes, I know the name,” I said, “I think I’ve plotted one or two of your photos recently. How many have you done?”
“Six”, he answered.
There was nothing I could say to that. Thirty trips was a hell
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of a way off when you’d done six.
He chose white from the two pawns I held in my closed fists.
“Off you go, then,” I said.
He opened conventionally enough, pawn to king’s fourth, pawn to queen’s third, and so on, and as we played I could tell we were both about the same calibre, on the poor side of indifferent. After a while, he started looking at his watch a lot and I could see his concentration was beginning to fade, but his knight was going to have my bishop and rook neatly forked, so I knew I was in for a bit of trouble. He sighed and said, “That’s about it for now, I’m afraid, I’ll have to get weaving up to the Flights.”
I said, “O.K., then, shall we finish it tomorrow? I’ll make a note of the positions, if you like.”
“Yes,” he said, “fine,” and got to his feet. “Thanks for the game.”
“Enjoyed it,” I said, and gave him the usual and universal Bomber Command envoi, “Have a good trip.”
“Sure, thanks,” he said, gave a half-wave and went out.
I watched him go. He looked rather like a schoolboy who had been sent for by the Head. A slightly cracked record on the radiogram was now telling us that someone liked her looks when he carried her books in Kalamazoo. I wondered idly where that was. I made a copy of the position on the chessboard and went out of the Mess. It was a beautiful summer evening, the sun was starting to dip now and there were some streaks of altostratus in the north-west. A faint breeze brought the twittering of sparrows; a blackbird nearer at hand was giving a few clarinet notes, intent on practising the first bar of his eventual good-night song. A Halifax droned over, to the east, high, probably setting off on a night cross-country or a Bullseye. His engines made a hollow, booming roar in the clear evening air. Then the Tannoy came to life with a hum and with a leap of the heart I heard J – ‘s voice come over, telling someone he was wanted at his Flight Office.
I cycled up the quiet road through the hamlet, which was companionably and inextricably mixed up with the Station’s huts, and turned right at the tall gable-end of a house on to the narrow concrete road which, in a few hundred yards beyond the W.A.A.F. site, came to the Ops Room.
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The sentry gave me a cheery “Good evening, sir,” and I went inside to the strip-lighting, the huge wall-blackboard, the central plotting table and the long desk with the telephones. Derek, J – and little Edith, one of the Int. Clerks, were on duty. I saluted and said, “Hiya, folks, everything under control?” It was. Edith was finishing writing up the captains and aircraft letters on the big blackboard and it looked impressive. You started to imagine the bomb-load from that lot going down on to a built-up area, and what it would do. Then you stopped imagining. I got busy with some paper-work, tying up loose ends and amending some S.D.s, then the clerk made some tea. J – ‘s phone was pretty quiet – it usually was a couple of hours or so before take-off – she was writing a letter, I think, and Derek was sorting out the mosaics alphabetically and sliding them back into the big drawer below the table.
“Time we had a new one for Hamburg,” he said, “this one’s about had it.”
“So’s Hamburg,” I said, “if it come to that,” and we grinned.
We drank tea, smoked and chatted a bit, mostly about our next leave. Derek was whistling “Room 504” off and on, and rather badly. There wasn’t a lot to do now except wait for a scrub, which we knew wouldn’t happen when there was a big summer high over western Europe. Odd calls came in to J – requesting Tannoy messages; she put them out and logged them all.
I went outside for a while to look at the sky. The Ops Room was windowless and the lighting and general fug got you down rather after a time, especially as we all smoked like chimneys. It was about nine o’clock. I looked over the cornfield which was just outside the Ops Room door. The corn was ripe, grown high, ready for harvest; the sky was very beautiful, pale green almost in one place, some stars showing, complete stillness.
“Calm before the storm,” I thought, rather tritely. I breathed the cooling air gratefully. Somewhere in the distance the blackbird was firing his short bursts of evening song. It was all very peaceful and the war seemed a hell of a long way off.
The sentry seemed fidgety, he was probably wishing I would hurry up and go in again so that he could have a quiet smoke himself.
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“Nice night,” I said to him.
Back in the Ops Room I felt we were completely insulated from the outside world. Until the phone rang.
“Ops, Breighton,” J – said. She listened, then put the phone down.
“Flying Control,” she said to me, “they’re taxying out. First off should be any minute now.”
“O.K.,” I said, “I might as well chalk them up.”
I was feeling a little strung-up; it would give me something to do. In a little while the phone rang again.
“Ops, Breighton….. right, sir, thank you.”
J – turned to me.
“B – Baker airborne 2149.”
I chalked up the time opposite ‘B’. After that, the phone went at very short intervals, until they had all gone. In the Ops Room we never heard a thing, only the hum of the air-conditioning and the buzz of the strip-lighting.
I imagined them doing their gentle climbing turns to port and setting course over the centre of the aerodrome, the Navigators carefully logging the time, the gunners in their turrets watchful for other aircraft, then climbing steadily away towards Southwold where they crossed out for the North Sea, the enemy coast and whatever lay in wait for them beyond, on the other side.
When they’d all gone, the Wingco came in for a chat. He was a good type and we all liked him. He and Derek shared an interest in painting, and after a while he took Derek off to the Mess for a drink. There wouldn’t have been much for Derek to do behind his desk, anyhow.
“Can you cope?” Derek asked, as he went.
“Of course,” I said, hiding my elation that J – and I would be able to have a talk. The clerk slipped off into the Int. Library, I think she sensed that three was a crowd. After a while, the phone rang again.
“Ops, Breighton….. yes, thank you, I’ve got that.”
She turned to me again.
“Flying Control. Early return, F – Fox, starboard inner u/s. I’ll phone the Wingco in the Mess.”
While she was doing so, I went outside again. It was quite dark now, and countless stars were showing. They had put the Sandra Lights on for
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F – Fox. In a little while I heard him coming from the south, then he came into the circuit with his nav. lights on, flashed ‘F’ on his downward ident. light and slid down on to the runway behind the H.Q. huts, his three engines popping as he throttled back. In the stillness I heard the screech of his tyres as they bit the runway, then his engine-note faded into silence. In a minute or two I heard his bursts of throttle as he taxied into dispersal. He would have jettisoned his load, and most of his petrol, into the sea. J – had logged his time of landing on the board.
“I’ve told the Wingco,” she said.
We swopped childhoods, parents and early Service days for a while, then I decided to go and have a sleep in the Window Store, on the bench. I must have been tired and slept very soundly, because I was awakened by knocking on the door and Edith’s timid voice calling, “First aircraft overhead, sir.”
I shivered as I swung my legs down off the bench and on to the stone floor; I always shivered when I heard those words, wondering how it had gone. Had they had much opposition? That was always my first thought. Had there been much fighter activity? What had the flak been like, and the searchlights? I never thought much about the target; what seemed to matter to me was whether they were all back.
I went into the Ops Room and lit a cigarette, passing my case around. Derek was back.
“Here’s Rip van Winkle,” he said, “come to muck things up for us.”
“Get knotted,” I grinned, “and let’s have my fags back.”
He threw my case back at me and I disappointed him by catching it. The phone rang; J – answered it. The first one had landed safely. Derek said, “I’ll get along and start the interrogations, Pam’s on, too.”
“O.K., Derek,” I told him, “I’ll be down later,” and he left.
He still had “Room 504” on his mind and it still sounded no better. The phone rang again, it was another one landed. They kept coming in steadily and whoever was nearest the blackboard chalked them up. By quarter to six we had them all back but two. I took a quick
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look around. The clerk was in the far corner collecting empty cups. I said to J - , quietly, “Can you meet me tonight? Seven o’clock? We’ll go to the Plough, if you like.”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she breathed, and smiled briefly. She still looked wizard, I thought, even at six o’clock in the morning after a long night duty. For a while we let our thoughts take possession of us. Then the phone broke the silence again. One of the two had landed away, in 3 Group. That left just one outstanding.
The minutes ticked by. Then I said the usual thing, one of us always said it at times like this.
“He could have landed away, too, and they haven’t told us yet.”
But there was actually only fifteen minutes left before his endurance, on the night’s petrol load, ran out. I went outside, restlessly. The Sandra Lights looked desolate in a vivid and rigid cone above the aerodrome, waiting in the silence which had now enveloped everything. Dawn was starting to break. It looked like being another perfect summer morning. Far away, a door slammed and someone whistled, loudly and jauntily. Probably one of the returned crews, just off to bed. The sky, lightening, seemed immense, the stars had faded and the trees were motionless. In a little while I went back inside.
“Anything, J - ?”
She shook her head. I looked at my watch. Time was up, and more. We were quite quiet for a long while. Then I said, “I was playing chess with his bomb-aimer just before they went. Let’s hope to God they are P.o.W.s”. We still sat, waiting. When I knew it was quite hopeless I said to J – “You’d better phone the Wingco and the Padre. I’m going to see about the photographs. See you this evening, then, goodnight, J - .”
“Goodnight, or rather, good morning,” she said.
I walked out of the Ops Room into the early morning with a feeling of weariness and desolation. What was it all about? I thought. It was quite cool outside; I reached for a cigarette and my hand found a piece of paper in my pocket. It was the sketch of the chess board. I looked at if for a minute or so, then I said,
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“Good luck, wherever you are.”
I screwed the paper into a ball and dropped it into the waist-high corn, and I thought of the seven men who might be lying amidst the wreckage of their aircraft somewhere across the sea. It was growing light now and a faint breeze stirred the ripened heads of the wheat. Somewhere, the blackbird was starting to sing. The Sandra lights had been put out. There was nothing left for me to do. I shivered, and turned away.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
With an effort I dragged my thoughts back to the reality of the present, and I realised it was already time to go. The sun was dazzlingly low, but its warmth still lingered and there was a faint scent of late roses as I walked up through the hamlet, towards the gable-end and the road to the Ops Room. An old man was stiffly tending his patch of front garden, and looked up as I said “Good evening.”
“Been a fine day,” he said. He saw my rucksack. “Have you come far?” he added.
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve come a very long way,” and I walked on, into the silence and the shadows of the gathering twilight.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] A different kind of love. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[underlined] A DIFFERENT KIND OF LOVE [/underlined
“’Tis sure small matter for wonder
If sorrow is with one still”
(A.E. Housman)
Temporization, delaying tactics, putting-off. Call it what you will. I try to justify it be telling myself that whatever one calls it – and I am fairly certain we have all of us been guilty of it at some time – it is a human failing, and the guilt one feels, if one should feel guilt at some action or lack of action if it affects only oneself, has been felt by many another person. And should one indeed experience feelings of guilt if whatever the reason for the “putting-off” it affects only oneself? But I am afraid that in the circumstances which I have finally decided and brought myself to the point of describing, at least one other person must have felt some hurt, almost certainly deep hurt, and this is what has concerned me for a very long time. The thought and the concern I have felt is something which comes into my mind for no apparent reason at intervals of time, like the aching of a doubtful tooth which one knows will prove difficult and extremely painful of extraction. The moral points having been made, it is time for me to elaborate, sparing, I hope, no detail, least of all sparing nothing of the sad story of my own actions which undoubtedly started the whole business. These events, I know, will be re-lived in my mind, as they have been over the years, for days on end, producing invariably feelings of deep sadness and of ineradicable guilt.
I think it is worthy of mention that in the closing months of my career in the R.A.F. I was successively Adjutant of two units. The first of these was the unhappiest unit I had encountered, and the second, which followed immediately afterwards was without doubt the happiest one; one where I felt that those around me were like-minded. I went, at the behest of the powers-that-were in South East Asia Command, from one to the other on receipt of the appropriate signal, teleprinted on to paper, simply by walking from one tent to
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another on a crowded-to-capacity aerodrome near Rangoon, the Japanese surrender having thankfully taken place a few hours before. I met some of my new fellow-Officers and took to them immediately. First impressions were confirmed over the next days, weeks and months. On the final posting of my R.A.F. career I had arrived on a unit which was the most agreeable I had experienced in six years. I think that was understandable when one considers that I would wake in the mornings knowing that there was no war being fought, that no-one was going to be killed among those around me, no-one was going to go missing on operations and that one would not find an empty bed across one’s room in the morning, no empty chair in the Mess, no letters to be written to next-of-kin.
From the tented camp, where conditions were, to put it mildly, primitive, we were, after a few days, put on board a small paddle-steamer and left Rangoon for where we knew not. On this small ship I was to meet people with whom I was to work and play very happily for almost the last year of my service in the R.A.F. and with a few of whom I was to form enduring friendships, now alas, terminated by the inevitable and merciless passage of time.
It was on this ship too, where I first became acquainted with the music of Elgar. One morning as we were steaming southwards – we knew that much! – I was coming down a short flight of stairs leading to what, in terms of a house in England, would be described as a hallway or lobby. Some music was being played on a gramophone there and I was so struck by its grave beauty that I stood stock still on the stairway until it had ended. Then, moved by it and marvelling at its beauty I went up to the Equipment Officer who was playing it on his wind-up gramophone. This was at the time of 78 r.p.m. shellac records, of course. I asked him what he had just been playing and he was more than pleased to tell me that it was a movement from Elgar’s Enigma Variations, called Nimrod and explained the significance of that title. Little did I know that I was to hear the same music, in vastly different circumstances very soon, the recollection of which would have the power to move me deeply for years afterwards, not only because of the music itself, but because of the player of it and what the player meant – and still means – to me.
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We soon learned that we were heading for the island of Penang, of which most of us had heard, but that was all, as part of Operation Zipper, the British occupation, or rather re-occupation, of what was then Malaya, after the Japanese surrender and withdrawal. We were to be, in fact, the first R.A.F. unit to land in Malaya. And so it was. We arrived at the quayside of Georgetown, the principal town, under the massive shadow of the battleship H.M.S. Nelson, anchored next to us. Over the next few days we found our quarters in an old army cantonment on a wooded hillside, at Sungei Glugor, and took possession of the small aerodrome at Bayan Lepas in readiness for the arrival of a Spitfire squadron and a detachment of two Beaufighters from Burma. We hunted for furniture for the empty and deserted cantonment and found ample in the abandoned dwelling houses on the island. We readily imagined what must have happened to the original occupants during the Japanese occupation.
Within days we had the Station operating and thanks to the Royal Signals, in contact with our parent formations at Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. The Spitfires and Beaufighters duly arrived. We were an operational formation.
Now that I was settled into a permanent location I had the time and facilities to write a letter to J – every day, as she did to me. We had been engaged to be married for just under two years and there was a clear agreement between us that we would not be married until after we were both settled into civilian life again. Never did either of us doubt the promises made to one another and despite the time and distance which separated us, neither of us doubted the fidelity or behaviour of the other. J – was a W.A.A.F. Sergeant on an operational bomber station, now thankfully converted to peaceful purposes, and she was surrounded by some hundreds of both W.A.A.F. and R.A.F. personnel. As for me, my surroundings were peopled exclusively by men. The relationship between J – and I was firmly founded on mutual trust.
It had been decided that we should participate in a Service of Thanksgiving in one of the churches in Georgetown, and the arrangements were soon made, as were the arrangements for a victory march-past of all the armed services in Georgetown’s Victoria Park.
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I suppose there were over 100 of us to attend the service, which was held in the Chinese Methodist Church on a pleasant evening. A sizeable Chinese contingent were also present, men and women, all beautifully dressed in white. I was near to the right hand end of a pew fairly near to the front of the church, and as I took my place the organ was being played. To my amazement and delight I immediately recognised the tune as none other but ‘Nimrod’, which I had only recently come to know and which had made such an impression on me on the boat coming down from Rangoon. Smiling to myself, I looked up and to my right to see if it was one of our number who was the organist. My further surprise was that it was not anyone that I knew, but someone I took to be a Chinese youth in a white surplice. And then I saw that I was again mistaken; the organist was a Chinese girl in a long white dress. As she finished ‘Nimrod’ she moved almost seamlessly into a Chopin E Minor Prelude whose tune, full of yearning, almost brought tears into my eyes.
The service itself was jointly conducted by a Chinese clergyman about 50 years old and of almost ascetic appearance, and our own Methodist Padre. During the service an announcement was made that light refreshments would be served in the church hall afterwards and I determined to be there, partly from personal preference and partly because as Wing Adjutant it would obviously be my duty not to return immediately to the cantonment at Glugor but to show a degree of sociability towards the local people who were our hosts.
It dawned on me that since I had left England more than six months previously I had never seen a member of the opposite sex in that time, nor even heard a female voice. My mother, on my embarkation leave and J – immediately prior to my going on leave, had been the last two women to whom I had spoken.
I wondered, as, the service over, I went into the fairly crowded church hall, whether the girl organist would be there so that I could tell her how I had enjoyed and been moved by her choice of music. She was indeed there, one of those serving refreshments at a line of tables at one side of the hall. I was extremely pleased, went straight across to her, and smiling, spoke to her, complimenting
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her on her playing.
She smiled depracatingly [sic] and brushed away with her hand one side of the curtain of her collar-length black hair from her face, a gesture which, so characteristic of her, I have recalled very many times since. Her voice was soft, musical and charmingly accented, reminding me forcibly of J – ‘s own voice. She apologised for not having played well; she said she was out of practice. These few seconds were the start of an utterly delightful, all-too-brief, but quite unforgettable friendship. It became a friendship, and only that. Nothing more. During the time that I knew her I never once touched her, not even to shake hands when eventually I left Malaya for good. (‘For good’? I was in two minds about that. I felt I was being torn apart). My promises to J – were unbreakable and at no time did I think even of the possibility of breaking them. We were engaged to be married; we would be married as soon as it could be managed when I returned to the U.K. Strangely, I have only just discovered some poignantly applicable words in a chanson by the 14th century Guillaume de Machaut –
‘…. in a foreign land,
You who bear sweetness and beauty
White and red like a rose or lily ….
The radiance of your virtue
Shines brighter than the Pole Star ….
Fair one, elegant, frank and comely,
Imbued with all modesty of demeanour.’
I was not alone in making a friend in the local community; there were at least two other Officers to my knowledge who formed attachments of one sort or the other while we were on the island.
And at home? J - , in her daily letters to me occasionally mentioned going to dances on the aerodrome where she was stationed and I presumed that obviously she danced in the arms of men. But I trusted her as implicitly as I hope she trusted me. She mentioned two men, both Australian pilots, by their nicknames. One of them was killed, with all his crew, when they crashed within sight of the aerodrome on returning from an op. No reason for the crash was ever
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established. But to my discredit I could not help feeling a twinge - - perhaps more than that – of jealousy whenever I read their names in her letters. And some time after J – and I were married, while we were once talking about wartime days and nights, quite out of the blue she said, only half-jokingly, “If I hadn’t married you I would have married an Australian”. I remember that I smiled but said nothing. What could I say?
I find it difficult now to describe Chiau Yong adequately as I saw her then and as I think of her now, without using trite phrases or words which in this age of cynicism would be sneered at or greeted with unbelieving or sarcastic laughter. But then, and over the weeks which followed I was charmed by her placid nature, her smiling, childlike innocence, her undoubted beauty and her impish sense of humour.
That evening in the church hall, as I chatted to her, standing as we were at opposite sides of the table of refreshments, I felt a growing happiness which I had not known for a long time stealing over me and calming me, as though the war, with all the tragedies which I had seen and experienced, had never taken place.
When, regretfully, it was time for me to go I had learned her name and that she was the daughter of the clergyman whose church this was. I had also, hesitantly and tentatively, expecting nothing except possibly a polite rebuff, asked if I might see her again by coming to hear her organ practice, whenever that might be. She shyly consented and I felt, as I left the hall, that my feet were hardly touching the ground. I think I must have been smiling foolishly, but fortunately no-one commented as we boarded the gharries to return to Glugor.
As often as I possibly could I went to the church and sat in a pew near to the front, where I could see her sitting at the organ console, while she practised, content to listen to the music she made and to watch her as she played, quite unperturbed that I was there, a few feet away from her, listening and watching. Sometimes I went with her into her home, where she played the piano for me. And often we talked. Her English was truly excellent, somewhat reminiscent in her use of words and phrases of the Victorian era, but none the less lucid and charming to hear spoken
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in her soft, lilting voice. We talked about the music she played; she asked what sort of music I liked. We talked a little about our respective backgrounds. She was keen to learn anything about England. I mentioned one or two of my wartime experiences but asked for no details of hers or of her family’s under the Japanese occupation. I developed an interest to scratch the surface of knowledge of the Chinese language. Her own dialect, and that of her mother, who spoke no English, unlike her father and her sister, was Hokkien. She and her sister, who joined us on one occasion when we sat talking, amused themselves and entertained me by translating my name into written Chinese ideographs, which they pronounced as ‘Yo-min’. Whenever Chiau Yong wished to draw my attention to something or ask me a question, it was always prefaced by her saying ‘Mister Yo-min….’ . I suppose in her strict upbringing, which I assumed she had had, the use of my Christian name would have been seen as unduly familiar.
She taught me the numerals from one to ten and chuckled delightfully behind her small hand at my unavailing efforts to pronounce the words for ‘one’ and ‘seven’ correctly. To my ears they sounded identical; I am afraid that I was an obtuse pupil. I asked her about her own name; she told me that it meant ‘shining countenance’ which, I thought, could not have been more appropriate. As to her age, I never enquired. I would have put her as being slightly younger than I. I was 24 at the time, she would be possibly around 20, I thought.
I met her parents on at least one occasion. They very kindly invited me to come to their home for an evening meal, which I was glad and honoured to do. Two things stand out clearly in my mind about that occasion: the number of different languages spoken around the table and the sense of peacefulness which surrounded us. Her mother, a quiet middle-aged lady, simply dressed in black, spoke only Hokkien which, if she addressed me, was translated by Chiau Yong, as was my reply to her mother. Her father, the minister, spoke excellent English in a calm and measured manner. Her sister, Chiau Gian and her rather quiet younger brother spoke English too, for my benefit. Chiau Yong, who had told me that she was learning Mandarin, the classical Chinese tongue, spoke in English, of course, to me, in Hokkien to her mother and in Malay to the houseboy who appeared from time to time on his domestic errands.
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After I had visited their home on several occasions to see Chiau Yong and to hear her play, I was slightly surprised when one afternoon, as we were talking together, a pilot from the Spitfire squadron which had arrived came into the room. I knew D – P – well enough to talk to, but I thought, in my limited understanding of such things, he did not fit into my preconceived idea of what a fighter pilot should be like. He was, from what I had seen of him in the Mess, not only slightly older-looking than the other pilots, with somewhat thinning hair, but also of a quieter disposition than most of the others. However, a Spitfire pilot he was, whatever ideas I had formed about the differences between them and bomber pilots such as I had been. I gathered he had come to see Chiau Yong’s father, and not being interested in the reason for his visit I promptly forgot about him after we had exchanged polite enough greetings on this and on one or two further occasions when he came to the house to see Mr. Ng.
I knew that my time on the island and indeed in the R.A.F. must shortly come to an end. Being an administrative officer, as Adjutant, I could almost forecast when my time would come to ‘get on the boat’ and while others around me were obviously in a fever of impatience to get back to ‘civvy street’, as it was always called, I found my own state of mind to be more in the nature of calm acceptance, knowing that while I would be returning to J - , whom I loved and to whom I would be married, somehow, somewhere and at some time, I had spent a quarter of my life and almost all my adult life in R.A.F. uniform and would find things difficult or indeed incomprehensible.
At about this time our unit, 185 Wing, received orders to move across to the mainland, into Province Wellesley, to become R.A.F. Station Butterworth, leaving very good and well-appointed accommodation for something not quite so commodious. But there was a very good ferry service between Butterworth (which local people knew as Mata Kuching) and Georgetown, so I was still within easy reach of the town, its cafes, good sports facilities which were well used by us all, and above all, still within easy reach of Chiau Yong.
Towards the end of my service at Butterworth, on one visit to her, she suggested that we take a cycle ride to see some nearby parts
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of the island which were strange to me, and this we did for a couple of hours, along deserted roads, up hillsides, almost always under the cover of trees with their blossoms, so exotic to my eyes, with their birdsong, and the chattering and calling of monkeys and chipmunks.
The idyll had to end. I think my unconscious mind has, as a defence mechanism, obliterated the recollection of our goodbyes, for I can remember not one single thing about it. It is as though it had never happened. But it must have done, of course. I returned to England, a stranger to a strange land. Standards had changed, attitudes had changed, there was no longer the feeling of one-ness, of co-operation and togetherness which the war had engendered. It seemed now as though it were ‘every man for himself and damn the others’. I let a decent interval of two or three days pass as I settled in at home with my parents then I travelled south to be with J - . It was a happy but strange reunion. Strange to see her in civilian clothes, strange to see her leave to catch an early train to Brighton to work for the South Eastern Gas Board. All our talk was of when, where and how we were going to be married and where we would live. In the end, with the willing help of my parents, I found very basic accommodation in my home town, as I had agreed with J – that I needed to return to my old occupation and to obtain a necessary qualification as soon as possible.
J – and I were married in the autumn from her aunt’s home in Surrey and after our honeymoon in Edinburgh we were thrust into the realities of married life in cramped surroundings, comprehensive rationing, with a shared kitchen, and where even the basics of living necessitated stringent saving on my salary, with all of which J – coped amazingly well. I had to study hard in the evenings in the same small living room where J – was usually reading or knitting, deprived of the radio so as not to disturb me. Settling down at work was none too easy. My superiors were a man who had somehow missed the first World War and who was too old for the Second, his deputy, who had tried hard to dissuade me from volunteering for aircrew on the grounds that I would be probably be instrumental in killing people and who himself, had he not been reserved from military service as a key employee would have been compelled to describe himself as a conscientious objector. There were also two ex-R.A.F. men, who in six years of service had attained the respective ranks of Corporal
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and of Leading Aircraftman. Perhaps because I had outranked them it became apparent that any particularly physically dirty or awkward job was allocated to me. I accepted the situation as a continuation of military discipline, as I did when the office clerk, a lady of mature years, when I politely declined to do part of her far less than arduous work for her (so that she would have more time for gossiping, I suspected), told me rather angrily and unimaginatively that since “I’d been away” I had changed, which I thought was something of an understatement. I never talked of my wartime experiences and no-one asked me a single question. All they knew was that I had flown aeroplanes, been over Germany and finished my career in the Far East. The rest was silence.
Having neither a telephone nor a car I kept in touch with friends I had made in the R.A.F. by letter and rarely did a week go by without news from someone, either in the U.K. or some other part of the globe. My correspondents, of course, included Chiau Yong, whom I had told in a letter that I was finally married, and had given her my address. I certainly had not forgotten her and whenever I thought of her I smiled mentally at the remembrance of her charming company and her music-making.
At this time, although of course there was no means of knowing it, J – was sickening for a serious, potentially fatal illness, which within months was to take her into sanatoria for more than a year of her young life. Whether this slow decline in her health, coupled with the novelty of her surroundings and circumstances contributed to the short and low-key breakfast table conversation which took place between us I do not know, but I suspect it might have done so.
I remember vividly that it was a Saturday morning. There were two letters for us, one for J – and one for me, which, to my delight I saw was from Chiau Yong. We opened our respective mail at the breakfast table. The letter was typical of Chiau Yong’s nature – pleasant, equable, written in beautiful English and containing some mildly jocular reference to something I must have once said to her about settling down into civilian life. It contained no word of love; it ended without those conventional little crosses which were the well-known signs for kisses. I would have been astonished beyond measure if it had done so. J – had finished reading her own letter. I smiled across the table and said “From Chiau Yong. Read it, darling”.
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She took it without a word and read it expressionlessly. I had no inkling of what was to come as she handed the letter unsmilingly back to me. Looking directly at me, she said “I don’t think it’s right that she should be writing to a married man like that and I think you should tell her so”.
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I was completely taken aback with shock and surprise. I had known J – for more than three years during which time we had seen eye-to-eye on almost everything and no word of disagreement had ever passed between us. But I recovered my composure quickly and knowing that one’s wife must come first in everything, I said “All right”.
I immediately left the table, got the writing pad and sitting down again in front of J – I wrote the cruellest words that I have ever in my whole life composed. My opening words are to this day burned into my memory.
“Dear Chiau Yong”, I wrote, “In England, a married man does not write letters to another girl”. And I continued briefly that the correspondence between us must now stop. It took about three minutes. I handed the letter wordlessly to J – who read it and gave it back to me with a nod. “Yes,” she said.
Chiau Yong’s name was never again mentioned during our married life, but I cannot and would not pretend that, happily married as we were for almost 40 years, I never thought of Chiau Yong. For I have thought of her often and I have been deeply and bitterly troubled that I must have been the cause of her suffering so much shock and pain so unexpectedly and, in my eyes, without any reason, and certainly not by any misdeed of hers, intentional or otherwise. I have prayed again and again over the years, and still do, that she might have eventually forgiven me. I never saw her again; I never heard from her again. Whether she is alive or dead, was or is happy or unhappy, I do not know, but I do know that she brought light and sweetness in unbelievable measure into my life and that our short and beautiful friendship was as innocent in every respect as any relationship could be.
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There is a curious and disturbingly bitter postscript to this unhappy episode in my life. J –‘s parents lived in Worthing and naturally she wanted to see them and her unmarried younger sister whenever she could. We had not much money, but by dint of hard saving we were able to spend two or three weeks every summer, usually during the Worthing Cricket Week, with her parents. One summer’s day, not all that many years before she died, J – and I were walking through the park near to the Worthing sea front. We left the park and crossed the road, going towards Lancing, still near to the sea. On the corner stood a church whose denomination I did not know – until I read on a notice board erected near to the church door, “Minister – D. P. –“ I looked away quickly before my shock and astonishment became too obvious. It could only have been the Spitfire pilot from Penang who used to visit Chiau Yong’s father, presumably for some sort of guidance or instruction as to his post war vocation. If things had been other than they were I would have gone immediately with J – to seek him out, to talk over the times when we first met, but of course Chiau Yong’s name would have come into our conversation. I walked on in silence, as though nothing untoward had happened, but with my mind in a turmoil. So J – never knew about D – P – , about his nearness and of the memories I still had of sunlit afternoons in the church hall in Georgetown where I would sit talking with that beautiful young girl in her long white dress.
Was I in love with Chiau Yong? Can one be in love with two people at once? Was that possible when I never stopped loving J - ? These are questions I have many times asked myself. The only self-convincing conclusion to which I can reasonably arrive is while there was no element whatsoever of the physical aspect of love in my relationship with her, yet I feel that the affection which I held and hold for her, whatever her feelings might have been for me, was more than mere friendship, that this was a different kind of love. Christ exhorted us to love one another. We were both Christians and I think that this is what He meant us to feel for one another.
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And so now, very often, while I have been writing this belated account of something which has haunted me for a very long time, and very often since I wrote that terrible, wounding letter, I remember with a sort of poignant gratitude and happiness, bitter-sweet happiness, the beauty of her nature and her innocent sweetness and I thank God for the gift of happiness which she gave me. But at the same time I feel a profound and bitter guilt and sadness, knowing that the dreadful hurt which she must have suffered and perhaps for years remembered was due to no fault of hers but was entirely due to me.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Mi querer tanto vos quiere,
muy graciosa donzella,
que por vos mi vida muere
y de vos no tiene querella.
Tanto sois de mi querida
con amor i lealtad,
que de vos non se que diga
viendo vestra onestad.
Si mi querer tanto vos quiere,
causalo que sois tan bella,
que por vos mi vida muere
y de vos no tiene querella.
(Enrique, d. 1488)
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[inserted] [underlined] Sun on a chequered tea-cosy [/underlined] [/inserted]
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O where are you going, Sir Rollo and Sir Tabarie,
Sir Duffy and Sir Dinadan, you four proud men,
With your battlecries [sic] and banners,
Your high and haughty manners,
O tell me, tell me, tell me,
Will you ride this way again?
(School Speech Day song, 1936.)
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[underlined] SUN ON A CHEQUERED TEA-COSY [/undelrined]
It was Zhejian green tea. I poured the water on, placed the lid carefully on the pot and took the tea-cosy in my left hand. The sun through the kitchen window shone brightly across its red and green checks. And stirred some memory, deep down in the recesses of my mind. Those checks had some significance, somewhere from a long way back. I stood there, looking down at the covered teapot and let myself relax until the realisation slowly dawned. I was looking again at the band around Ivor’s R.A.F. peaked cap when he was an apprentice at Halton, before the war, and I found myself thinking back to the times I had walked with him along the cliffs, hearing the gulls screaming overhead and wheeling in the sunlight, laughing with him as he sang “Shaibah Blues”, with the waves crashing on to the rocks below.
I never thought I would find myself in the position of trying to do a small thing to defend Ivor, after all this time, but, of course, there’s no one else left to do it now. Looking back over it, although so many years have passed since H – wrote what he did, it still seems to me that they were very cruel words to use, especially as Ivor had no means of defending himself, no right of reply nor of appeal. It was something so barbed that it eventually acquired, through its re-telling, the significance and nature of a legend, and in the perverse way of things it elevated Ivor to the status of a minor hero. But all the same, at the time it took place I could see it had made a deep and lasting impression on him, young and resilient as he was. And now, to me, at any rate, H – ‘s words about Ivor have acquired a poignancy which can never to expunged.
Ivor need not, of course, have let anyone into the secret; one didn’t do that sort of thing, very often, at school, in case it was thought that one was being sissy or trying to attract attention and sympathy, but it was sufficient to indicate to me, and to John, I believe, who was there at the time, how deeply it had struck home, when Ivor approached us one day on the Second Field, before school went in.
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It was the beginning of the Autumn term. The field behind the woodwork room looked bare and open without the cricket nets; the marks of the bowlers’ run-ups and of the batting block-holes could still be seen. The rugby pitch, away down the slight slope, looked very green and inviting with its newly painted posts and flawlessly straight white lines. During the winter months I lived for rugby and thought of little else; scholastic subjects took a poor second place.
As was the custom, about half the school were engaged in punting a single rugger ball around, more or less at random, before lessons started, competing with one another to catch it then punt it as far as one could again. It sounds, and looked, I suppose, pointless. But it was rare that anyone in any match missed catching a kick by the opposition, and no-one at all would dream of letting the ball bounce before he attempted to take it. I was squinting up into the sun at the flight of the ball when I heard someone call, “Hey! Yoicks!”
I turned to see Ivor. John, who was nearby, grinned when he saw him and came over, with his rather stiff-legged, rocking walk. Ivor and I exchanged the usual new-term greetings and repartee – where had we been, had we seen the latest laurel and Hardy picture, and so on. Then, surprisingly, for the old term was now but a hazy memory, Ivor said, “What was your report like?”
“My report?” I repeated in astonishment.
“Yeah, what was it like?” Ivor repeated, attempting a casual nonchalance.
I was surprised at his interest in that, because Ivor, more so than I, perhaps, was not particularly scholastically minded. He had the build of an athlete, taller than me by four or five inches, heavier by almost a stone, with dark, short-cropped hair, a freckled face and a pugnacious jaw. He moved with the natural athlete’s springy lope. He was a more than adequate boxer, a hard-working and aggressive lock forward and, during the summer, a forthright, attacking middle order batsman, as well as being a bowler of fearsome pace and hostility, if rather lacking in accuracy.
“What was it like, then, your report?” he repeated insistently.
To be truthful, I could hardly remember much about it; I took little interest in it, apart from my French result and the comments opposite “Games”. My parents rarely commented on it either, except to tell me, with some regularity, that I would have to pull my socks up.
“Oh, all right, I suppose,“ I said off-handedly to Ivor. “I was top in French,” I added rather smugly. He ignored that.
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“What did H – have to say – about your Speech Training?”
I looked at him in amazement. Speech Training? It just didn’t count; there was no exam., no placings, just remarks on the term’s progress, or lack of it.
For a short while around this period of time, the powers-that-were quite rightly decided that we should be put on the path towards becoming at least partly comprehensible in our speech to someone who might live more than half-a-dozen miles away. And Mr. H - , as a recent graduate from Oxbridge, was deputed to perform this function. It must be said that he did so with rather bitter sarcasm, delivered under a thin veil of feigned jocularity, which did little to impart in us either the ability, or indeed the desire to speak our mother tongue in a widely acceptable form. In fact, it had, in some cases, where the pupil concerned was either of a rebellious or strongly independent nature, quite the reverse effect, as toes were, metaphorically speaking, firmly dug in.
Into this category Ivor fell; he took very personally and very much to heart the barbed remarks directed at him during the rather tedious classes in Speech Training, and in the end, it was obvious to everyone that he was adopting an attitude verging on passive resistance to H – ‘s instruction. It seemed that Ivor’s was the proverbial duck’s back off which the pure water of H – ‘s tuition flowed unheeded.
Ivor seized me, in mock anger, by the lapels of my blazer.
“C’mon, c’mon!” he exclaimed in his best Humphrey Bogart accents, “Come clean, y’rat!”
“Well,” I said, rather tired of the subject by now, “if you must know, I think he said something like ‘fairly good’. I didn’t get myself told off by my parents, anyhow, so it can’t have been too bad. But why, anyhow? What’s all the fuss about?”
Ivor’s eyes narrowed and he looked around him before, dropping his voice, he said to John and me, “Do you know what the rotter put on mine?”
“No,” I said, somewhat obviously.
“Well, on mine, he said, ‘Seems incapable of sustained effort’, the so-and-so. My Dad played merry hell about it, threatened to
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stop my pocket-money and goodness knows what.”
“I say, it is a bit thick, though, isn’t it, H – saying a rotten thing like that? I mean to say – “
I left the sentence unfinished; I felt that H – ‘s remark was a bit much. Surely he could have simply said ‘fairly good’ or ‘could do better’? They were the customary form of words. But this, well, it was rather damning. Both John and I made sympathetic noises, then John passed around his wine gums. I let Ivor have the black one and we chewed them in thoughtful silence, each of us meditating on the rat-ishness of H - . The next time I caught the ball I passed it hard to Ivor and he gave vent to his feelings with a tremendous punt which almost cleared the fence by the Art School.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
At that age, memories are short, and mine was no exception. I cannot speak for Ivor, of course; I suppose that somewhere inside that stubborn, defiant head of his a resentment still burned, and as far as H – was concerned, while it would be quite unfair to say that he had it in for Ivor, it was apparent that he singled him out with some slight relish as the object of any cutting remarks he felt inclined to make concerning our defective pronunciation. But it was something which, to be honest about it, did not loom very large in my life. Perhaps twice a week, during the Speech Training lessons I would look covertly, with mingled anticipation and apprehension, at the scornfully sarcastic H – and at a reddening Ivor, his lower lip jutting stubbornly, as the temperature of the atmosphere rose between them. But my Autumn term was dominated by the fact that I was picked to play for the Junior House fifteen.
I knew, of course, that Ivor’s eldest brother was in the Royal Air Force; from time to time he mentioned him, proudly, and looking back, I realise that I never knew his first name, he was to Ivor, simply ‘my brother’. Somehow, it lent them both a great deal of dignity, I think. Ivor would also tell us the latest Station his brother was on, their romantic-sounding names supplying, as it were, a coloured backdrop to the anonymity of ‘my brother’ in his coarse, high-necked airman’s tunic and peaked cap pulled down on his brow,
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as I saw him in my imagination, marching in a squad of men – I did not yet know they were called ‘flights’ – across a vast parade ground.
“He’s on a course at St. Athan, just now,” Ivor would tell us, or, “My brother’s been posted to Drem,” or again, “He’s at Scampton.”
What his brother did, exactly, we never knew, nor thought to ask, it was sufficient that he inhabited and was part of a picturesque, far-off and dashing world, greatly removed in every way from our monotonous and rather dreary provincial town.
One day, Ivor came up to John and me and said, proudly, “My brother’s been posted overseas, he’s gone to Aden.”
John said, mischievously, “Will he be wearing a fez?” and had to dodge the powerful left swing which Ivor pretended to aim with serious intent at him. On the strength of that news, John and I took to calling Ivor “Ali”, but we could tell he didn’t much like it, and as he was still the target of H – ‘s jibes we thought he had sufficient to contend with, so we eventually dropped it.
It was during the Christmas holidays when I was, for want of something better to do, in our sitting room playing the piano rather loudly and very inaccurately, that my mother put her head around the door.
“You’re not concentrating,” she said, “I can tell, you know. But there’s someone here for you, do you want me to bring him in?”
“Who is it?” I asked, glad of the interruption.
“I think he said his name was Bradley,” she replied.
“Oh, it must be Ivor, then,” I said, feeling much less bored and getting up from the piano. I went to the front door. Ivor was standing there with an expression of elaborate unconcern on his face.
“Hello, Yoicks,” he greeted me.
“Hiya,” I said, “what are you doing here?”
I thought perhaps he might want to borrow a book, or something.
“I was just going for a walk along the cliffs – want to come?”
This surprised me slightly as he wasn’t by any means a regular friend of mine away from school; there were a group of five or six of us who lived near to one another and who tended to congregate
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on our bikes in our immediate neighbourhood; Ivor lived all of three-quarters of a mile away in quite another part of the town, separated from our district by a railway line.
“Sure,” I said, glad of the distraction, “just hang on, I’ll shove my coat on.”
As I was doing so, “Mother!” I called, “I’m just going along the cliffs with Ivor.”
“Mind you don’t get cold,” she said, “Have you got your coat on?”
I rolled my eyes at Ivor, who grinned understandingly.
“Yes, Mam,” I said, in a long-suffering voice, and shut the door quickly behind me. We strode away.
When we arrived at the cliff-tops, the cold easterly wind was smashing the rollers against the rocks below and tugged at our overcoats as we walked. Until then we had talked of the usual things, what we had had for Christmas presents, the “flicks”, as Ivor always called them – a word learned from his brother, perhaps? – and how we had been passing the time during the holidays.
“My brother’s in Aden,” Ivor said, “did I tell you?”
I said yes, he had told us, how was he getting along?
“Great,” he said, “but it’s bloody hot out there. They’re all wondering what this bloke Mussolini’s going to do, he keeps talking about – what’s its name? – Abyssinia, or some place?”
I wasn’t greatly interested in the comical figure of the Italian dictator, comical, that is, as he appeared to us, or as he was portrayed to us. So I merely grunted something non-committal.
Ivor said abruptly, “I’m leaving. I thought I’d tell you.”
“You’re what?” I shouted above the noise of the sea, “You’re leaving? Leaving school? But you can’t!”
“Oh, yes I can, though,” he replied with a grin of triumph, “my Dad’s been to the Town Hall to check up.”
“But what are you going to do?” I asked, now all agog. He used an expression I heard then for the first time, on that cold and windswept cliff path, one which, when I hear it, inevitably brings to mind Ivor, his freckled face pink with the cold, as he proudly said, “I’m going to join the Raf.”
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The penny didn’t drop. It must have been the cold.
“The what?” I said, “What’s the Raf?”
He punched my shoulder playfully. Fortunately he was nearer the cliff-edge than I.
“C’mon, yer mug, it’s the R.A.F., of course. What else did you think?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I replied, recovering my balance. “When’re you going, then?”
“Soon as I can. End of next term, prob’ly. I’m going to be a Boy Apprentice at Halton!”
He squared his broad shoulders. A vision of Oliver Twist with his empty porridge bowl held out in front of him floated into my head. ‘Boy Apprentice’ sounded rather like someone who was being exploited, ill-treated. I am sure I was wrong, but the picture remained. But I grinned and said, “You might get out to Aden with your brother.”
“Hope so,” he said wistfully, “but he’ll prob’ly be posted again before that. Anyhow, that’s what I’m doing. I’m leaving as soon as I can. No more speech training for me!”
We laughed. Two gulls wheeled noisily overhead, their screaming cut across the noise of the sea and of the wind. Ivor aimed his fingers, pointed like a pistol, at them and clicked his tongue very loudly, twice. He was good at that.
“Gotcher!” he exclaimed.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Spring term came and went. Ivor, as they would put it nowadays, kept a low profile as far as H – was concerned, and worked assiduously at every subject, even Speech Training. At the end of term he quietly left us. I don’t even remember saying ‘cheerio’ to him. We were young, you see, and quite without sentiment. Then it was summer, and the nets went up again. To my surprise I was elected Junior House cricket captain and became rather insufferably swollen-headed about it. It was on a Saturday afternoon that summer when I saw him again. I was sitting at home, reading, when a shadow passed the window, there was the sound of heavy footsteps and someone knocked at the door. I heard the door-knocker flap loosely as my mother answered it, then the sound of conversation.
[page break]
“It’s your friend,” mother said, “the one in the Air Force.”
I hurried to the door. Ivor stood there, smiling broadly, resplendent in his uniform, heavy boots shining brilliantly, his cap carrying the chequered band of the Halton Cadet.
“Hiya, Ivor!” I said. (I almost called him ‘Ali’ and only just corrected myself in time.)
“Hiya, Yoicks! How about comin’ for a walk? I’m on a forty-eight.”
I had no idea what that was but I went to tell my mother where I was going.
“Isn’t he smart?” she smiled quietly, “he looks well in his uniform.”
We set off for the cliffs, in the sunshine. I noticed he did not lope along now, he marched. He seemed taller than I remembered him, bronzed and deep-chested, harder. We exchanged news. In one way he seemed to be very grown-up but in another, he was still my form-mate, furrowing his brow at some problem of Algebra.
“What’s a forty-eight, by the way?” I asked.
“Just a forty-eight hour pass.”
“You haven’t got much time at home, then, have you? All that way from Halton and you’ll have to be back again inside two days?”
“Sure,” he said, airily and confidently, “it’s a piece of cake.”
That was another new expression; I stored it for future use.
“Where’s your brother just now? Still in Aden?”
“No, he’s been posted to Shaibah; bet you don’t know where that is.”
I shook my head.
“never heard of it before,” I said.
“Middle East,” Ivor said proudly, “Iraq – getting his knees brown good and proper.”
He started to sing joyfully what I later knew to be the anthem of all overseas R.A.F. men, “Shaibah Blues”. Then he ripped into several verses of “Charlotte the Harlot”, and while, having been very strictly brought up, I didn’t know the meaning of some of the expressions, I gathered from their anatomical connections that it was not the sort of thing one would sing at home. At least not at my home. But I smiled rather sheepishly when he’d finished.
I said, “Do you like it, in the Raf?”
(I hadn’t forgotten.)
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“It’s great,” he said decisively, “bloody great.”
He slapped me hard on the shoulder.
“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken, Yoicks!”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, square-bashing, P.T., lectures – I’m going to be a Flight Mechanic.”
I could see he was as happy as a sandboy, it shone out of him. He was alert, confident, buoyant, a complete contrast to the rebellious and scowling youth who had reluctantly forced himself to stand and, red-faced, chant, “the rain in Spain.”
“that’s fine, then,” I said, “but we don’t half miss you in the scrum.”
He never mentioned H – ‘s name.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Then, of course, the fuse which had been smouldering in Europe for six years finally detonated the bomb, and everything blew up in our faces. Not many of us were at all surprised. Although I and nearly all our little crowd who lived nearby had left school and were settling into our various jobs, as soon as Munich had come along I pushed my studying to one side. I knew there was no point in it now. It was going to be, at the very least, somewhat interrupted. So I, and my friends, played a lot of games, went to a lot of flicks, cycled a lot, and, out of working hours, lived our lives to the full, as far as we could. I started to take a girl out. Her name was Lilian, and she was extremely beautiful.
When the Battle of Britain was on I went into the R.A.F. One of my leaves, much later, coincided with one of Ivor’s, and he called at hour house, out of the blue. This time, as we were men, we shook hands firmly. He looked me up and down.
“I’m bloody well not going to call you ‘sir’,” he said.
“You’d bloody well better not try,, either,” I replied, “or I’ll stick you on a fizzer!”
He swung a playful punch at me, which, knowing Ivor, I was half-expecting. I dodged it and clouted him in the midriff, hard enough to make him wince.
“You rotten sod!” he gasped, “come on, let’s have a walk on the
[page break]
cliffs!”
I handed him a Players’, we lit up and strode away. The cliffs were partly wired off as an anti-invasion measure but we managed to get near enough to hear the same waves crashing on to the same rocks, and to smell the salt air as we walked. Until I looked at us, I felt nothing had changed; then I knew it had, really, and that you could never, ever, put the clock back to what had been.
It was about this time that the inevitable, impersonal and cruelly clinical process of the dissection of our little crowd began.
Norman was unfit for military service because of his deplorable eyesight. He was working for one of the Government Departments in London when a German bomb killed him. Peter, who lived in the next house down the street, and whose father had been drowned at sea a couple of years before, went into the R.A.F., became a Navigator, and was killed when his Wellington, from Finningley, crashed one night. I visited his mother on my first leave after it happened.
She was in a state of near-hysteria at mention of his name, and bitter, it must be said, that everything seemed to be going well for me. She did not know, of course, about my crew. I left her staring into the small fire, locked in her private world of abject misery. Then there was Jack, who was also an only son, strangely enough, also a Navigator on Wellingtons, also killed in a night crash.
By the time Alan, whom I had met in London while I was on my Intelligence course, had qualified as a Radar Operator on Beaufighters, the Germans had ceased flying over England at nights and he was transferred to non-operational flying. George also went into the R.A.F.., qualified as a pilot, then, almost immediately, the war ended. He emigrated to the U.S.A., where he had been trained.
Connie and I had a few months together at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, until I was grounded for good. I left him there, bumped into him once more, on leave, then learned of his death. He had crashed his Stirling, towing a glider, over England.
When it was all over, I asked Alan to be my best man. I would have done so anyhow, but in practical terms I had no choice – there was no-one left in our crowd now but he and I.
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So much had happened since I had last seen Ivor that he rarely had entered my thoughts. There was little reason for him to have done so, as he was a Fitter, in a pretty safe ground job in the R.A.F. Like thousands of other friends, we had been separated by the war and we would either bump into each other on some R.A.F. station, or in some outlandish place in the Far East, or eventually, we’d see each other back in the U.K. When he did enter my head occasionally, I thought perhaps he might have met and married a girl from some other part of the country, or, like George, had seen service in foreign parts and emigrated. I visualised him in a fez, thought about John’s remark about his brother, and smiled to myself at the happy recollection. But gradually, Ivor faded out of my mind.
Until I bumped into a chap who owned a shop, and who had been in our form at school. He had lived within a few hundred yards of Ivor. He, also, had served in the wartime R.A.F., as an armourer, and strangely enough, he told me he had been on the nearest Station to Breighton, at the same time as I had met J – there. I don’t know how he managed it, but he was a mine of information as to what happened to the chaps in our form. Ivor’s name did not come up immediately, as, of course, he had left school before we had done so. But in a pause during his cataloguing of old friends and acquaintances I asked him, “Where’s Ivor got himself these days? I haven’t seen him for years.”
P – was solemn, bespectacled and deliberate in manner and speech. He looked earnestly at me through his thick lenses for a moment or two, as though sorting through some mental card-index and trying to decide whether I could be trusted to hear the information which he had in store there.
“Ivor,” he said slowly, “Ivor Bradley. Yes. he went into the Raf, of course – you knew that?”
“yes,” I said, “He was a Boy Entrant, a Halton Brat, as they were known.”
A smile flicked on to and off his face, like the headlights of a car signalling ‘come on’.
“That’s right,” he continued, then paused. “Yes, well he went missing, you know.”
[page break]
For a moment I could not think what he meant. Rather obtusely I said, “You mean he left town? Went off somewhere suddenly?”
“No, no, he was aircrew, he went missing on a raid over Germany,” P – said, looking more owlish than ever.
“But – he was a fitter, surely?” I exclaimed, with an awful feeling, which I had hoped never again to experience, beginning to overtake me. Then, as the light dawned, I said, “Did he remuster to aircrew?”
P – nodded.
“Yes, that’s what happened. I saw him just after he volunteered for aircrew – you remember we lived near to one another? – and he said he wanted to do something a bit more active. So he became a Flight Engineer.”
“Good God,” I said softly, I’d no idea at all. I never dreamed that Ivor would go – like that.”
He nodded again, solemnly.
“Well, he did, I’m afraid,” he said.
He shuffled through a few more cards.
“How long were you at Breighton, by the way? I saw your name in the Visitors’ Book in the Church there, on the day after you’d been in.”
“That’s remarkable,” I said, “what a small world, isn’t it?”
I remembered very vividly going into the church with J - , the day after Johnny P – went missing.
P – said, “You must call in again sometime. I’ll shut the shop and we’ll have a cup of tea and a proper chat.”
I said yes, I would do that, and I felt I should really have made more of an effort to do so. But I was a bit of a coward about the rest of his card index, I’m afraid.
It was several more years before I learned what had happened to Ivor. Searching through a volume of aircrew losses I finally found his name. He was lost without trace, with his crew, during a raid in a Pathfinder Lancaster in the summer of 1943.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I poured myself a cup of the green tea and took a sip as I looked out of the window. But it was terribly tepid, so I threw it all away
[page break]
and found I wasn’t really thirsty after all. The sun had long since moved off the chequered tea-cosy, and it was starting to get dusk. I shivered suddenly and found I was feeling extremely lonely and extremely depressed. I looked across at the white telephone and wished to hell that someone would ring, anyone at all, even a wrong number would have done, just so that I could have heard a voice. I sat for a while, waiting, but I knew it was a stupid thing to do. Nobody did ring, so I put on my anorak and went out quickly.
I walked around for a bit. I passed a lighted pub which looked very inviting and cheerful with people smiling at one another and chatting while they drank their beer. I wished I could go in and have a few beers, with Connie, like I used to. I stopped and thought about it, but I knew it would be no good, and as M – had said, it wouldn’t solve anything. So I kept on walking and feeling bloody miserable when I thought about Ivor and Connie, and about Jack and Peter and Norman, and all my crew. And about J - . Her especially. Then I had a strong craving for a cigarette, but I knew that would be a stupid thing to do, too.
It started to rain, so finally, I made my way back to the flat. It felt empty and cold, like somewhere someone had once lived, but didn’t any more. If no-one rings before nine o’clock, I told myself, I will ring M - , just so that I can talk to someone, for Christ’s sake. I sat and looked at the telephone again for a bit and thought about it. But nine o’clock came and I didn’t do anything about it in the end, because I knew it wouldn’t be very cheerful or very much fun for her, and as I was tired and cold I swallowed a couple of aspirin and got into bed.
While I was taking them it occurred to me that there was a stack left in the bottle which could be put to very effective use, but then I thought that wasn’t exactly any part of a pressing-on-regardless effort, so I shoved the bottle firmly to one side.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to go off to sleep after all this business, and I was damned right. I kept thinking about Ivor, then I started thinking about the crowed and how much I realised I was missing them. And about J - ; her, most of all. Then I thought,
[page break]
“My God, there’s only me left now, and I’m not much damn good to anyone like this, even if there were anyone,” which made things worse. I would have given a great deal if I could have turned the clock back, to have gone back to Breighton, to that lovely summer, to have started all over again, to be meeting J – for the first time, that wonderful morning when I saw her walk into the Ops Room, when she came to attention smartly and saluted and said, “Good morning, sir.” Little did I know, little did we both know what was to happen to us.
But this was getting me nowhere, so in the end I said aloud, “Oh, Christ, I just don’t want to wake up in the morning.” Then I said goodnight to J – ‘s photograph, in our own very special way, like I always had done, to her, once upon a time, when we were together, when we were happy.
And then I put out the light.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
[inserted] [underlined] Photograph in a book. [/underlined] [/inserted]
[page break]
[underlined] PHOTOGRAPH IN A BOOK [/underlined]
“Frankie, do you remember me?”
(Late 20th century pop song.)
I realise it is very trite to say that the unexpected is always happening. Nevertheless I have to say that something completely unexpected happened recently to me, which produced, out of the blue, a violent cocktail-shaking of emotions which I thought were firmly and peacefully laid to rest.
I flatter myself that usually I am among the first to obtain, or at least to see, newly-published books on the subject of Bomber Command in the second world war, but for one reason or another, this was not the case in relation to a recently-published history of No. 4 Bomber Group.
4 Group included the aerodromes at Linton-on-Ouse, (my initial posting as an Int/Ops Officer), Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, to which I was moved when the Canadians were about to take over the northernmost aerodromes of 4 Group to form their own 6 Group, and Breighton, the satellite of Holme, where I was to meet, fall in love with and become engaged to J - , who, when the war was over became my wife.
I should have, to have been true to form, snapped up the book on its first appearing, but for various reasons, I did not. Instead, I heard reports – all good – of it from D - , an Ex-W.A.A.F., who features on a whole page of it, complete with her charming photograph, and with whom I had been corresponding. And I heard of it from Alan, a friend who was instrumental in having a memorial installed on the village green close to the place where Pilot Officer Cyril Barton, V.C., of 578 Squadron in 4 Group, sacrificed his life in bringing back his crippled and half-crewed Halifax after the disastrous Nuremberg raid. Alan was a schoolboy at the time and was among the first on the scene of Cyril Barton’s crash. He has, most worthily, devoted a considerable amount of his time and energy to ensuring
[page break]
that Cyril’s sacrifice will never be forgotten. It was as a result of this that, just before J – died, I met Alan, a very caring man, a man who has become a true friend to me. He was given the book as a birthday present.
He and I live in neighbouring towns. We speak on the telephone quite often; we meet whenever we are able and always find much to talk about, as Alan was also in the Royal Air Force. He was thrilled to receive the book, which, naturally, contains material concerning Cyril Barton. I had been searching bookshops for it, but without success; I had been waiting for the local Library to obtain it for me.
Early one evening there was a ring at my doorbell. Alan was standing there, cheerful as ever, a welcome sight indeed. He was carrying something flat in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. With typical generosity he said that as he and his wife were shortly going on holiday, I might as well have the benefit of the book while he was away. I was grateful to him, and leafed through it while we chatted for a while before he had to leave to go to work. He showed me a picture in the book of Cyril’s wrecked aircraft and of Alan himself, as a schoolboy, standing near to it, very soon after the crash occurred.
When Alan had gone, impressed by the high quality of the book and by the photographs in particular, many of them amateur pictures taken by wartime aircrew members, I leafed through its pages, then worked through them systematically.
There were many poignant, familiar scenes. Of aircraft and their crews, of aerodromes and their buildings, targets in Germany and the occupied countries, pictures of people I had known of by reputation, people I had known personally, many I had never known. I found myself wondering how many of those young faces smiling at me from the pages were now, like myself, turning these same pages thinking, as I was thinking, “Oh, yes, I remember a scene like that”, or how many if them were no longer able to do this. A lump was gathering in my throat as I turned to a particular page and saw, among a group of captions, one which read ‘Interrogation for 78 Squadron crews as others await their turn, following the raid
[page break]
on Berlin on 31st August/1st September 1943.’
Reading it, I thought, “Well – I was an Intelligence Officer to 78n Squadron at that time.” Then I looked at the photograph and saw myself pictured there, in the far corner of the room, writing down the replies to my questions to the crew – heaven only knows who they were – at my table.
“My God,” I exclaimed.
I could not help it and I am not ashamed to admit that my eyes flooded with tears. I had no idea that the photograph had been taken; the author’s credit was to Gerry C - , who was a pilot on the Squadron at that time, whom I knew, and with whom I am still in contact.
I felt as though I had been wrenched back in time to that night, almost fifty years ago, as though the intervening years had never been, as though I were still at Breighton, working those long and irregular hours in the windowless Operations Room alongside Derek and Pam, with one or other of the W.A.A.F. Watchkeepers – Freda, or the attractive and much sought after Billie, or with J - . I felt, strangely, that all I needed to do was to walk out of the door of this cottage and I would find myself, miraculously, back on the narrow concrete road leading from that house in the hamlet of Breighton with its tall gable-end, along past the W.A.A.F. site to the Nissen huts of the Intelligence Library, the Window Store and the Ops. Room, where the armed sentry would be on duty, where the cornfield would be stretching away to my left, up towards the perimeter track and the runways of the aerodrome. I would return the sentry’s salute and his greeting and I would open the heavy door of the Ops. Room to see, on my left, the huge blackboard with the captains’ names and their aircraft letters already entered for the night’s operation. At the top, the target for tonight, perhaps Duisburg or Mannheim or Essen – or Berlin. The route written underneath that – Base – Southwold – Point A, with Lat. and Long. positions for the route-marking flares to guide the bomber stream to the target. The time of briefing, of the operational meals, of transport out to the aircraft, of starting engines, and of take-off. Of ‘H-Hour’, the time on target. On the wall facing me I would see the huge map of the British Isles, the S.D. 300, blotched in red with gun-defended areas, stuck with broad-headed pins and coloured threads carrying information
[page break]
about navigational hazards.
In the middle of the room the big map table where, after the raid, we spread the mosaic photograph of the German town which had been the target and would plot the crews’ bombing photos. And, to the right, the place where I shall sit, near to the telephones and next to J – who is there behind her switchboard and Tannoy microphone, ready for the night’s operation. If she had been born a man she would, I know, have been a member of a bomber crew, for she thought and talked of little else but bombing operations.
Except on stand-down evenings, in the twilight, when we met secretly in the village at a quiet angle of buildings on the main road, near to the bus stop, then cycled to the ‘Plough’ at Spaldington, the nearest village to the bombing range, where, amazingly, there were no other uniforms to be seen in its homely bar. Where we would spend the long, warm evenings over two or three beers, sitting in the high-backed, high-sided wooden seats made for two, made for people like we were then, people who were young and who had met and who loved each other deeply and desperately. And sitting there, talking gently together, we would hear, above the murmur of the farm workers’ talk, the drone of some aircraft, perhaps on a night cross-country flight, perhaps heading for the other side on a raid. Then we would both sit silently, listening, not saying anything, but I know we were both praying for its safe return to base.
Sometimes, when our own aircraft had gone on a raid and we were not due on duty until they returned, we would steal a precious hour together, sitting with our arms around one another in the darkness, on a low grassy bank under some trees, not far from the unmanned railway level crossing at Gunby, the Sandra lights from the aerodrome shining distantly through the trees, heavy with their summer foliage. For some reason, whenever I hear Delius’ ‘The Walk to the Paradise Garden’ I invariably and inevitable think of J – and I at that place and those wonderful, warm summer nights we shared in the countryside of East Yorkshire, around Breighton.
The tears which came to my eyes when I saw my photograph, and the sadness which overwhelmed me, were because now, that Interrogation Room, whose walls, had they been possessed of ears, would have heard
[page break]
small, unemotionally told tales, couched in the understated phrases of flying men, of achievement, of failure, of heroism, of desperation, triumph and tragedy, that Interrogation Room is now an unoccupied ruin, and the Ops. Room is no more, now part of an isolated dwelling house. I know, for I have been back there, where among so much tragedy, I was so happy.
And J - , now, is no more, except in my memory. I sat with her, taking her cold and unfeeling hand in mine, one beautiful summer morning, such as we used to have at Breighton, and I watched her life slip away from the loveliness that had been her. But we shall meet again, I know, she and I, and all the many crew members who came into our lives and went again, and were forgotten by us, like the many dawns and the many sunsets which we shared.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
[page break]
[underlined] GLOSSARY [/underlined]
Abort – to abandon an operation and return to base.
A.C.P. – Aerodrome Control Pilot, a ‘traffic policeman’ for those aircraft within visual distance.
A.G. – Air Gunner.
Alldis lamp – high-powered lamp capable of flashing Morse letters.
A.P. – Air Publication, usually a book; Aiming Point.
A.S.I. – Airspeed indicator.
Astrodome – transparent blister half way back along the fuselage of the Wellington.
A.S.V. – Anti-surface vessel.
A.T.A. – Air Transport Auxiliary, civilian aircraft delivery service.
Base – parent Station of one or more satellite aerodromes. Three, four, or even five Bases and their satellites constituted a Group.
base – one’s home aerodrome.
Best blue – best uniform.
Bind – (noun) nuisance, annoyance. (verb) to complain, tiresomely.
Bomb plot – plan of the target area annotated with the positions of each of the Squadron aircraft’s bombing photos.
Bombing Leader – senior Bomb-Aimer on a Squadron, responsible for instruction and training of other Bomb-Aimers.
Bombing photo – vertical photo taken automatically on release of an aircraft’s bombs, thus showing the point of impact.
Boost – petrol/air mixture pressure at the engine inlet manifold.
Buck House – Buckingham Palace.
Bullseye – bomber exercise in conjunction with friendly searchlights.
Circuits and bumps – take offs, circuits and landing, the staple diet of training pilots.
C.O. – Commanding Officer.
Cookie – 4000 pound High Capacity blast bomb, nicknamed by the press and B.B.C. ‘blockbuster’.
DC3 – Douglas Dakota twin-engined transport aircraft. Also known as a C-47.
Defiant – Boulton Paul single-engined fighter/night fighter. Two-seater, the rear seat being in a rotatable 4-gun turret.
[page break]
D.R. – Dispatch rider.
Drem lighting – aerodrome runway and perimeter track lighting, protected by metal dish-shaped hoods so as to be invisible from above. First used at R.A.F. Drem, Scotland.
Early return – (later knows as ‘boomerang’) aircraft returning from an abortive sortie.
E.F.T.S. – Elementary Flying Training School.
Erk – Aircraftman.
E.T.A. – Estimated time of arrival.
Feathering – device which enabled the pilot to turn the blades of a propeller edge-on to the direction of flight, thus minimising the drag on the aircraft in the event of an engine failure.
Flak – German anti-aircraft fire.
Flights – Flight Offices and crewroom.
Flying the beam – flying from A to B by means of an aural signal transmitted by B.
Fresher – a new crew; such a crew’s early operational flights; the target for such a crew.
Fizzer, stick (or put) on a – charge with an offence.
Gee – radar navigational aid which enabled an aircraft to fix its position. Had a limited range which just covered the Ruhr and was susceptible to jamming.
Gen – information, news, divided into ‘pukka’ (true) and ‘duff’ (false). (Meteorological Officers were invariably known as Duff Gen Men.)
Geodetics – aluminium girders formed into spiral basket-work construction which made up the fuselage and mainplanes of the Wellington.
Get weaving – get going, get started.
Glim lamps/lights – low-powered lights which formed the flarepath of an aerodrome.
Glycol – Ethylene glycol, liquid coolant.
Gong – medal.
Goose-necks – paraffin flares housed in watering-can-shaped containers. Supplemented Drem lighting.
G.Y. – Grimsby.
Gyro – gyroscopic compass.
[page break]
1 Group – Bomber Group in north Lincolnshire consisting of, originally, 4 R.A.F., 3 Polish and 2 Australian Wellington Squadrons, latterly, of Lancaster Squadrons.
3 Group – Bomber Group in East Anglia consisting of, originally, Wellington Squadrons. Converted to Stirlings, latterly to Lancasters.
Halifax – Four-engined Handley Page bombers with crew of seven. Nicknamed Hali or Halibag.
Hampden – Twin-engined Handley Page medium bombers, crew of three.
Harvard – single-engined North American Aviation Co. advanced fighter trainers. Also know as Texan or AT – 6.
“Have a good trip” – Between close friends on a Squadron this parting remark was occasionally varied by the addition of “Can I have your egg if you don’t come back?” This was part of the grim humour current among bomber aircrew.
H.E. – High explosive.
High – anticyclone, high-pressure weather system.
H2S – Radar device which showed a ground plan of the earth below an aircraft.
Ident. light – identification light, a small nose-light used for flashing Morse.
I.F.F. – Identification friend or foe. Radar set carried on an aircraft to identify it as friendly to British ground defences. Set to ‘Stud 3’ it gave a specially-shaped distress trace on ground radar screens.
Int. – Intelligence.
Intercom – internal ‘telephone system’ in an aircraft.
Interrogation – now known, in view of the current overtones of ill-treatment which have become implicit in the term, as ‘de-briefing’.
I.T.W. – Initial Training Wing.
Juice – petrol
Kite – aircraft.
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L.A.C. – Leading Aircraftman.
L.A.C.W. – Leading Aircraftwoman.
Line-shoot – boast.
Link Trainer – a simulator which gave practice in instrument flying.
Lysander – Single-engined Westland Aviation Army co-operation (originally) aircraft.
Mag drop – the reduction in r.p.m. of an engine when one of its two magnetos was switched out.
Mae West – Inflatable life-jacket which gave to its wearer the contours of the famous film actress.
Mosaic – collage of aerial photographs, taken probably at different times, but from the same height, making up a complete picture of a German town, and used to plot bombing photos.
Nav. – navigator, navigation.
N.F.T. – night-flying test.
Nickels – British propaganda leaflets dropped over enemy territory. To drop the leaflets was known as nickelling.
Observer – Navigator/Bomb-aimer in twin-engined bombers prior to the establishment of these as separate categories.
Occult – white flashing beacon showing one Morse letter whose latitude and longitude was carried by Observers or Navigators (in code).
On the boat – posted overseas, or, when overseas, posted to the U.K.
One o’clock – slightly to the right of dead ahead (twelve o’clock). Dead astern was six o’clock.
Ops – operations.
O.T.U. – Operational Training Unit.
Oxford – twin-engined advanced bomber-trainer, made by Airspeed Ltd.
Peri. track – perimeter track, a taxying track connecting the ends of the runways on an aerodrome, and having aircraft dispersal points leading off it.
Pigeon – homing pigeon carried in bomber aircraft to carry a message back to base giving the aircraft’s position in the event of ‘ditching’ (landing in the sea), when the aircraft would be too low for its radio transmissions to be heard.
[page break]
Pit – bed.
Pitch controls – varied the angle of the propeller blades and consequently controlled the r.p.m. of the engine.
Pitot head – (pronounced pea-toe) fine-bore tube facing forward which supplied air pressure from the movement of the aircraft through the air and showed this pressure as airspeed on a ‘clock’ in the cockpit.
P/O – Pilot Officer (not necessarily a pilot!)
Poop off – shoot off.
P/O Prune – a cartoon character in Tee Emm (q.v.), an inept pilot forever involved in accidents of his own making.
Portreath – R.A.F. Station in Cornwall
Prang – crash, wreck, break.
Press the tit – press the button.
Prop – propeller, more properly, airscrew.
P.R.U. – Photographic Reconnaissance Unit.
Pundit – aerodrome beacon, flashing two red Morse letters which were changed at irregular intervals. The beacons were always within two miles of the parent aerodrome, although their position was changed nightly.
R.A.A.F. – Royal Australian Air Force.
R.C.A.F. – Royal Canadian Air Force.
Resin lights – low-powered lights at the rear of an aircraft’s wingtips, illuminated over this country as a warning to friendly night-fighters. Colours were changed at irregular intervals.
Revs – revolutions.
Rolling the bones – gambling with dice.
R/T – radio telephone (speech).
Sandra lights – cone of three searchlights stationary over an aerodrome, to assist returning aircraft.
Scrub – cancel.
Second dickey – second pilot.
S.D. – secret document.
S.D.300 – wall-map of the U.K., kept in the Ops Room and maintained by the Watchkeepers, showing positions of all gun-defended areas, navigational hazards and convoys.
[page break]
S.F.T.S. – Service Flying Training School. (Stage following E.F.T.S.)
Spit – Spitfire.
Spoof. – feint.
Sprog – newly arrived, newly joined, raw, inexperienced.
Square-bashing – drill.
Stall – lose flying speed.
Stirling – four-engined bomber manufactured by Short Bros.
Stooge – boring, casual or haphazard flying.
Stud 3 – Distress frequency setting on I.F.F. (q.v.)
Sullom Voe – R.A.F. Station in the Shetlands.
Sweet Caps – Sweet Caporal cigarettes, a popular Canadian brand.
Tee Emm – Air Ministry Training Magazine. Humorously written and comically illustrated aid to safe flying and good navigation and gunnery. It was extremely popular with all aircrew.
Trailing edge – rear edge of mainplane or elevators.
Trimmers – (or ‘trimming tabs’). Small adjustable sections of the aircraft’s control surfaces, enabling it to be flown, when they were carefully adjusted, without undue pressure on the controls by the hands and feet.
Undercart – undercarriage.
u/s – unserviceable.
u/t – under training.
Vic – V.
W.A.A.F. – Women’s Auxiliary Air Force; a member of same.
W.A.A.F. (G) – Officer responsible for the discipline and well-being of all W.A.A.F. on a Station.
Watchkeeper – W.A.A.F. Sergeant who acted as a clearing house for all telephoned outgoing and incoming secret operational and other information, and who was responsible for its prompt and correct transmission to the appropriate person(s).
Wellington – twin-engined Vickers bomber with a crew of six.
Wimpy – Nickname for the above. Derived from the character in a ‘Daily Mirror’ cartoon – J. Wellington Wimpy, a friend of Popeye.
[page break]
Wingco – Wing Commander. (C.O. of a bomber Squadron).
W/T – wireless telegraphy (Morse code).
Y.M. – Y.M.C.A.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Loose on the wind
Description
An account of the resource
Starts with a poem and then a series of stories which together form the memoirs of Harold Yeoman, an officer who served in Bomber Command during the war, initially as a pilot on Wellingtons and then as an Intelligence Officer. He relates his activities both professionally and personally during this time and recounts the many friends and colleagues he lost whilst on operations. He recalls his flying training on the Tiger Moths at Sywell, then on to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada for further training. He was then posted to Bassingbourne O.T.U. to train to fly Wellingtons, before going to Binbrook on operational flying duties. Harold flew a number of operations before being grounded due to medical reasons. It was whilst he was grounded that his crew were reported as missing and subsequently recorded as killed in action. While waiting for his Medical Board, Harold was stationed at the Operational Training Unit at Moreton-in-the-Marsh ferrying brand new Wellingtons from Kemble and flying them to Moreton to hand over to pupil crews. He was then moved to ‘X’ Flight of the O.T.U and trained new pilots before being grounded again for medical reasons when he transferred into Intelligence for Bomber Command. He completed his R.A.F. career in Penang as an Adjutant.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
H Yeoman
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-11
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Multipage printed document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Text. Poetry
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Canadian Air Force
Royal Australian Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Northamptonshire
England--Northampton
England--Devon
England--Torquay
England--Cheshire
England--Wilmslow
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
Canada
Nova Scotia--Halifax
Nova Scotia--Cape Breton Island
Saskatchewan--Moose Jaw
England--Suffolk
Germany
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Netherlands
Netherlands--IJssel Lake
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Essen
England--Lincolnshire
England--Grimsby
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Cologne
England--Berkshire
England--Reading
Netherlands
Netherlands--IJmuiden
Germany--Essen
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Sylt
Germany
Germany--Helgoland
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Germany--Lübeck
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Bochum
England--Gloucestershire
England--Yorkshire
Burma
Burma--Rangoon
Malaysia
Malaysia--Kampong Sungai Gelugor (Pinang)
Malaysia--George Town (Pulau Pinang)
Malaysia--Butterworth (Pulau Pinang)
England--Buckinghamshire
Wales--Vale of Glamorgan
Germany--Nuremberg
Saskatchewan
Nova Scotia
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1942-09
1942-05
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
1 Group
12 Squadron
4 Group
578 Squadron
78 Squadron
air gunner
Air Transport Auxiliary
aircrew
animal
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
arts and crafts
B-17
B-24
bale out
bombing
bombing of Hamburg (24-31 July 1943)
bombing of Nuremberg (30 / 31 March 1944)
control tower
crash
crewing up
Defiant
faith
fear
final resting place
flight engineer
flight mechanic
forced landing
Fw 190
Gee
Gneisenau
grief
ground crew
ground personnel
Guinea Pig Club
H2S
Halifax
Hampden
Harvard
In the event of my death letter
Ju 88
killed in action
Lancaster
love and romance
Lysander
Manchester
McIndoe, Archibald (1900-1960)
medical officer
mess
military ethos
military living conditions
military service conditions
navigator
observer
operations room
Oxford
pilot
prisoner of war
RAF Bassingbourn
RAF Bawtry
RAF Binbrook
RAF Breighton
RAF Finningley
RAF Halton
RAF Holme-on-Spalding Moor
RAF Kemble
RAF Linton on Ouse
RAF Little Rissington
RAF Mildenhall
RAF Moreton in the Marsh
RAF St Athan
RAF Sywell
RAF Torquay
RAF Tuddenham
Scharnhorst
searchlight
shot down
Spitfire
sport
Stalag Luft 3
Stirling
Tiger Moth
training
Victoria Cross
Wellington
Window
wireless operator
wireless operator / air gunner
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1765/30828/LLayneWH963102v1.2.pdf
92e993a538036ec434cab6f9f4840a3d
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Layne, Wally
Walter Henry Layne
W H Layne
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-06-07
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Layne, WH
Description
An account of the resource
100 items. The collection concerns Walter 'Wally' Layne (b. 1916, 963012, 40348 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, prisoner of war diary, personal and official correspondence and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 97 Squadron and became a prisoner of war after being shot down.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by D Layne and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Wally Layne's observer's and air gunner's flying log book
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LLayneWH963102v1
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Mike Connock
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Czech Republic
Denmark
France
Germany
Great Britain
Italy
Netherlands
Norway
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
Czech Republic--Plzeň
Denmark--Copenhagen
England--Cambridgeshire
England--Lincolnshire
England--Nottinghamshire
England--Rutland
England--Yorkshire
France--Brest
France--Dunkerque
France--Lorient
France--Saint-Nazaire
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Essen
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Hamm (North Rhine-Westphalia)
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Helgoland
Germany--Karlsruhe
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Leverkusen
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Mönchengladbach
Germany--Munich
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Peenemünde
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Wuppertal
Italy--La Spezia
Italy--Milan
Italy--Turin
Netherlands--Amsterdam
Norway--Oslo
Wales--Gwynedd
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1940
1941
1942
1943
1941-07-06
1941-07-07
1941-07-08
1941-07-09
1941-07-12
1941-07-13
1941-07-17
1941-07-18
1941-07-20
1941-07-21
1941-07-24
1941-07-28
1941-07-29
1941-08-06
1941-08-07
1941-08-16
1941-08-17
1941-08-18
1941-09-02
1941-09-03
1941-09-06
1941-09-07
1941-09-20
1941-09-21
1941-09-29
1941-09-30
1941-10-10
1941-10-13
1941-10-20
1941-10-21
1941-10-23
1941-10-29
1941-10-30
1941-10-31
1941-11-08
1941-11-09
1942-01-02
1942-01-03
1942-01-10
1942-01-11
1942-01-14
1942-01-15
1942-02-06
1942-02-24
1942-02-25
1942-02-26
1942-02-27
1942-02-28
1942-03-09
1942-03-10
1942-03-11
1942-03-13
1942-03-23
1942-03-24
1943-04-02
1943-04-03
1943-04-04
1943-04-05
1943-04-08
1943-04-09
1943-04-10
1943-04-13
1943-04-14
1943-05-12
1943-05-13
1943-05-14
1943-05-23
1943-05-24
1943-05-25
1943-05-26
1943-05-29
1943-05-30
1943-06-28
1943-06-29
1943-07-08
1943-07-09
1943-07-12
1943-07-13
1943-07-24
1943-07-25
1943-07-26
1943-08-10
1943-08-11
1943-08-12
1943-08-13
1943-08-17
1943-08-18
1943-08-22
1943-08-23
1943-08-27
1943-08-28
1943-08-31
1943-09-01
1943-09-03
1943-09-04
1943-09-05
1943-09-06
1943-09-07
1943-09-22
1943-09-23
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Description
An account of the resource
Observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book for Walter Henry lane, wireless operator/air gunner, covering the period from 19 October 1940 to 23 September 1943, when he was shot down and became a prisoner of war. He was stationed at RAF Penrhos, RAF Cottesmore, RAF Lindholme, RAF Swinderby, RAF Skellingthorpe, RAF Waddington, RAF Winthorpe, RAF Woodhall and RAF Bourn. Aircraft flown in were Dominie, Whitley, Battle, Anson, Hampden, Manchester, and Lancaster. He flew total of 63 operations 36 with 50 Squadron and 27 with 97 Squadron. Targets were Brest, Hamm, Bremen, Cologne, Keil, Karlsruhe, Copenhagen, Oslo, Berlin, Hamburg, Dunkirk, Amsterdam, Essen, St Nazaire, Wilhelmshaven, Heligoland, Lorient, Duisburg, Frankfurt, Spezia, Pilsen, Dortmund, Dusseldorf, Wuppertal, Turin, Nuremberg, Milan, Peenemunde, Leverkusen, Mönchengladbach, Mannheim, Munich, and Hannover. His pilots on operations were Flight Lieutenant Fox, Sergeant Mudd, Pilot Officer Carter, Squadron Leader Mulford, Pilot Officer Helmore, Pilot Officer Bartley, Sergeant Flight Sergeant Lord and Flying officer Fletcher DFM.
14 OTU
1661 HCU
50 Squadron
97 Squadron
air sea rescue
aircrew
Anson
Battle
bombing
Bombing and Gunnery School
bombing of Hamburg (24-31 July 1943)
Bombing of Peenemünde (17/18 August 1943)
crash
Dominie
Gneisenau
Hampden
Heavy Conversion Unit
Lancaster
Lancaster Mk 1
Lancaster Mk 3
Manchester
mine laying
missing in action
Operational Training Unit
prisoner of war
RAF Bourn
RAF Cottesmore
RAF Lindholme
RAF Penrhos
RAF Skellingthorpe
RAF Swinderby
RAF Waddington
RAF Winthorpe
RAF Woodhall Spa
RAF Yatesbury
Scharnhorst
shot down
target indicator
training
Whitley
wireless operator
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1732/30436/MBeislyJWT1593305-200929-010001.1.jpg
1c0303a02e84a0105ae624cb92fbc851
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1732/30436/MBeislyJWT1593305-200929-010002.1.jpg
4faf834d74c1c59653e21e64a7fedc1d
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Beisley, John
John W T Beisley
J W T Beisley
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2020-09-29
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Beisley, JWT
Description
An account of the resource
Three items. The collection concerns John Beisley (b. 1925, 1593305 Royal Air Force) who flew 30 operations as a flight engineer on Halifax and Lancaster with 433 Squadron. Collection contains a summary of his operations, official documentation and a memoir.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by GA Thompson and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Record of John Beisley's 30 operations
Description
An account of the resource
Summary of bombing operations with 433 Squadron from 11 August 1944 to 26 March 1945, Flew as flight engineer on Halifax and then converted to Lancaster December / January 44/45.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two page printed document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MBeislyJWT1593305-200929-01
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Canadian Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Germany
France
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
France--Le Havre
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Germany--Kiel
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Calais
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Bochum
Germany--Essen
Germany--Homburg (Saarland)
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Jülich
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
Germany--Castrop-Rauxel
Germany--Neuss
Germany--Bonn
Germany--Goch
Germany--Dresden
Germany--Mainz (Rhineland-Palatinate)
Germany--Chemnitz
Germany--Dessau (Dessau)
Germany--Elbe River Estuary
Germany--Dithmarschen Region
Germany--Bottrop
Germany--Hannover
Great Britain
England--Sussex
England--Norfolk
England--Suffolk
England--Cumbria
England--Cambridgeshire
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-08-11
1944-09-12
1944-09-14
1944-09-15
1944-09-17
1944-09-20
1944-09-23
1944-09-25
1944-09-27
1944-09-28
1944-10-09
1944-10-23
1944-10-25
1944-10-28
1944-09-30
1944-10-31
1944-11-04
1944-11-05
1944-11-16
1944-11-18
1944-11-20
1944-11-21
1944-11-27
1944-11-28
1944-11-30
1945-02-04
1945-02-07
1945-02-13
1945-02-14
1945-02-21
1945-02-27
1945-03-02
1945-03-05
1945-03-06
1945-03-07
1945-03-08
1945-03-16
1945-03-21
1945-03-24
1945-03-25
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
433 Squadron
aircrew
bombing
bombing of Dresden (13 - 15 February 1945)
flight engineer
Halifax
Lancaster
mine laying
RAF Ford
RAF Foulsham
RAF Waterbeach
RAF Woodbridge
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1505/28858/SDaviesLA1581024v10007.2.pdf
efdd956e8f0ca559504f18f9ad4afe07
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Davies, Leslie and Jack
Leslie Alfred Davies
L A Davies
John Richard Davies
J R Davies
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-04-28
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Davies, LA-JR
Description
An account of the resource
49 items. Collection concerns Leslie Alfred Davies (1922-1996, 1581024 Royal Air Force) and his brother John Richard Davies ( - 1944, 1580941). Leslie served as a Lancaster navigator on of 50 Squadron completing his tour of 30 operations in March 1945. John served a Lancaster bomb aimer on 166 Squadron He was killed in action 3 August 1944. Collection consists of Leslie's crew's individual logbooks and biographies, operational histories, photographs of people, aircraft and a grave, documents and correspondence. <br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Murray Davies and catalogued by Nigel Huckins. <br /><br />Additional information on John Richard Davies is available via the <a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/105795/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Flight Sergeant G Jarmy's bomb aimer log book
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SDaviesLA1581024v10007
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending review
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Description
An account of the resource
Flying log book for G Jarmey, bomb aimer, covering the period from 29 August 1943 to 8 July 1945. Detailing his flying training, operations flown and instructor duties. He was stationed at RCAF Fingal, RCAF London, RAF Moreton Valance, RAF Husbands Bosworth, RAF Wigsley, RAF Syerston, RAF Skellingthorpe and RAF Upper Heyford. Aircraft flown in were Anson, Bolingbroke, Wellington, Stirling, Lancaster and Oxford. He flew a total of 32 operations with 50 Squadron, 6 daylight and 26 night. Targets were Wilhelmshaven, Bremen, Flushing, Nuremberg, Dusseldorf, Mitteland Canal, Harburg, Duren, Dortmund-Ems Canal, Munich, Heilbronn, Gdynia, Politz, Houffalize, Royan, Merseburg, Karlsruhe, Dresden, and Bohlen. His pilot on operations was Flight Lieutenant Jones. This item was sent to the IBCC Digital Archive already in digital form. No better quality copies are available.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943
1944
1945
1944-10-05
1944-10-06
1944-10-07
1944-10-11
1944-10-19
1944-10-20
1944-11-02
1944-11-03
1944-11-06
1944-11-07
1944-11-11
1944-11-12
1944-11-16
1944-11-21
1944-11-22
1944-11-26
1944-11-27
1944-12-04
1944-12-05
1944-12-17
1944-12-18
1944-12-19
1944-12-21
1944-12-22
1944-12-30
1944-12-31
1945-01-01
1945-01-02
1945-01-04
1945-01-05
1945-01-07
1945-01-08
1945-01-13
1945-01-14
1945-01-15
1945-02-02
1945-02-03
1945-02-08
1945-02-09
1945-02-13
1945-02-14
1945-02-19
1945-02-20
1945-02-21
1945-02-22
1945-02-24
1945-03-05
1945-03-06
1945-03-07
1945-03-08
1945-03-20
1945-03-21
1945-03-22
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Belgium
Canada
France
Germany
Great Britain
Netherlands
Poland
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
Belgium--Houffalize
England--Gloucestershire
England--Leicestershire
England--Lincolnshire
England--Nottinghamshire
England--Oxfordshire
France--Royan
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Germany--Dresden
Germany--Düren (Cologne)
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Harburg (Landkreis)
Germany--Heilbronn
Germany--Karlsruhe
Germany--Leipzig Region
Germany--Merseburg
Germany--Mittelland Canal
Germany--Munich
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Netherlands--Vlissingen
Ontario--London
Ontario--Toronto Region
Poland--Gdynia
Poland--Police (Województwo Zachodniopomorskie)
Ontario
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Fighter Command
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Mike Connock
14 OTU
16 OTU
1654 HCU
50 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
Bolingbroke
bomb aimer
bombing
Bombing and Gunnery School
bombing of Dresden (13 - 15 February 1945)
Heavy Conversion Unit
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
Operational Training Unit
Oxford
RAF Husbands Bosworth
RAF Skellingthorpe
RAF Syerston
RAF Upper Heyford
RAF Wigsley
RCAF Fingal
Stirling
training
Wellington
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1550/28722/YJamesER[Ser -DoB]v1.pdf
3b4119258fda9405a724f010441e40b2
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
James, Ernest Raymond
E R James
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-10-24
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
James, ER
Description
An account of the resource
Five items. The collection concerns Sergeant Ernest Raymond James and contains his diary, decorations and photographs. He flew operations as an air gunner with 576 and 582 Squadron Pathfinders.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Roy James and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Front cover of notebook]
[page break]
[rubber stamp of retailer] Loxley Brothers Ltd.
A LANCASTER
[photograph missing]
Left to Right.
1 A Costling 2 P Raynor 3 JT Smith 4 J Brown 5 DN Reid 7 F Docker 6 R James.
Operations
The Gen Crew.
[Black and White photograph]
Smith
Wop RG Mog Pilot Set Op Eng. Nav.
Brown
[page break]
LEFT TO RIGHT.
Wop ALEX. R. Gun. Mid upp. J Smith. Pilot J Brown BA. D Reid Eng. R James Nav Dockar.
[page break]
MY PAL “BUTCH”
[picture of Air Chief Marshall Arthur Harris]
5
Elsham Wolds. 576 SQD
1st OPERATION
KEIL night
23 July 1944
In The Old J2
Medium to light flak.
Very few searchlights
never saw a fighter.
Quiet A nice trip took 5-30 hrs
Receiver in Wireless went u/s but okay after changing valve. Used emergency working.
No damage to aircraft at all.
Saw no kites Shot Down although a few were.
Good prang saw fires through thick clouds.
[page break]
10
576 Squ
2nd operation
Stuttgart
24 July 1944 Night
in J2
Concentrated heavy flak over the aiming point and along the bombing run
Very few searchlights
Bags of fighters one flew alongside of us. Bags of panic
No damage to the kite at all but quiet [sic] a few were shot down.
Not a bad trip but too many fighters knocking around and 9-15 hrs is too long for me to be in the air
A really good prang
[page break]
15
576 Sqd
3rd Operation
Stuttgart
28th July 1944 Night.
In J2.
More flak than last time and more fighters yes sir a lot more fighters
Few searchlights.
Bags of chop fighters escorted us over France right to target and back again and they were not ours
Last time we couldn’t have pranged it so good but this time I dont [sic] think we will have to go again for a bit.
Rear gunner shot a fighter rocket down.
67 Lancs were lost.
We got away without a scratch.
[page break]
18
576 Sqd.
4th Operation.
31 July 1944. Le Havre day.
In R2
1st Daylight raid.
Target port installations and U boat pens.
Bags of predicted flak.
Saw kite in front shot down in flames. That shook me.
No fighters
Afterwards learned that two destroyers were sunk in the harbour.
Actually saw bombs raining down on target.
We suffered no damage at all.
Starboard outer had to be feathered going out.
We were diverted to Lindholme because of bad weather
Trip lasted 4-30.
[page break]
21
5th Operation. 576 Sqd
3 Aug 1944 Trossy/St Maximin Day.
2nd Daylight Raid.
Flying bomb main depot.
Bags of predicted flak
Saw two kites shot down
No Fighters. Had spitfires escorting us.
Had good view of France
Went quite a way in just north of Paris actually.
B.A. Saw one kite knocked out of the air with some one elses bombs.
Not a very good prang.
It took 4-40 hrs.
Kit was R2.
[page break]
26
576 Sqd
6th Operation
Pauillac. Day.
4th August 1944. 3rd Daylight
Back again in J2
Target was an oil refinery. Escorted by Mosquitoes and Spitfires.
Real good trip and a real smashing prang smoke up to 10,000
Not one burst of flak and no fighters.
Saw huge flames after oil tanks had been hit.
Two tankers were hit.
Went out about 100 ft above the sea.
Altogether the best trip up to now although it took 8-15 hrs.
[page break]
32
576 Sqd
7th Operation
Blave Day
5 August 4 Daylight in J2
Target another oil refinery.
Escorted by spitfires and Mos
Quiet [sic] a decent trip similar to Pauillac just opposite side of river.
Just a bit of flak
One JU 88 got into stream but was last seen heading east with a few Mos on his tail.
Not quiet [sic] as good a prang as yesterdays but a nice trip
It took 8-25 hrs.
Diverted to Worksop.
[page break]
35
576 Sqd.
8th Operation.
Battle area (Nr Caen)
7th august 1944 Night attack.
Target. German defences holding up our troops.
Just light flak.
A few enemy night fighters.
Rear gunner saw one but it didnt [sic] see us. Thank the lord.
Very unsatisfactory raid
PFF ran out of target indictors.
We brought all our bombs back.
Trip took 4-10 hrs
Kite was J2.
PS. That was our last trip from 576 Sqd. and as PFF had boobed on the trip above we thought we would try our hand at it.
[page break]
40
[newspaper cutting]
Little Staughton PFF 582 Sqd.
Stettin. Night.
29th August 1944. 9th Operation.
Target was the Town & Docks
In another J.
To show there was no ill feeling we went right over Sweden and boy their lit up towns sure looked good. Their light flak look very pretty too.
Over Stettin there was one huge belt of searchlights and more flak than I have ever seen before
Quite a few fighters around but we weren’t attacked.
Actually we were the first kite over Stettin.
Not a bad trip but I think rather too long.
It took 9-20.
[page break]
45
1st Rhur Trip.
11-9-44. PFF 582 Sqd.
10th Operation. Day.
(Castrop Rauxiel)
In the Rhur. Five miles from Dortmund.
Synthetic Oil Plant.
Kite was E
First kite over target again and plenty of flak to welcome us. It was just like one solid wall. bits of flak hit various parts of kite including the starboard outer engine
No fighters were seen and only nine aircraft were lost. Every kite on our squadron had some damage due to flak.
Trip took 3¾ hours
Did two bombing runs as no Tis were down when we first arrived and that was no picnic
[page break]
50
13 Sept 1944. PFF Sqd 582
11th Operation.
Day. Target Osnabruck
Big railway junction.
Kite was E.
Slight flak
No fighters
Quite a good prang bags of black smoke looked as if some oil had been hit.
Cruised round target to watch the main force bomb. Saw the old cookies going down.
A real good trip
It lasted 4 hrs 5 mins.
Want rest of trips like this one
[page break]
55
[newspaper cutting]
PFF 582 Sqd.
12 th Operation.
15 Sept. Kiel Night.
Target was the town.
Medium flak
Few searchlights.
Night fighters just a few
Kite was O
First kite over target again
Saw Jerries spoof target indicators going down.
Quiet [sic] a decent prang bit that I saw of it.
The kite was in a terrible condition and I never expected it getting to Kiel never mind getting us back.
Trip lasted 5 hrs 35 mins. Similar to last Kiel raid.
First Electric storm we had experienced and it was quite interesting to watch.
[page break]
60
PFF 582 Sqd.
13th Operation
5 Oct. Saarbrucken .
Night.
Target was town which is a supply base for the Siegfreid [sic] line.
Medium flack
Plenty of fighters
As we were late we had to retain our flares.
Not a very eventful trip it lasted 5-10.
Seemed to be a very good prang bit what I saw of it.
Attacked by a JU88 but we evaded okay.
[page break]
65
2nd Rhur Trip
[newspaper cutting]
7 Oct. Saturday morning.
Just been out to the kite and up to now they have found 60 flak holes in her. The No 1 fuel tank (starb) had been holed and starb inner feathering pipe line almost in two
PFF Sqd 582
14th Operation.
6th Oct 1944 day.
Scholven (Rhur).
The most intense heavy predicted flak we have ever seen.
Every one of the engines hit. So many holes in kite that we couldn’t count them. Me and bomb aimer in the nose when nose was hit. Piece of flack hit him and went in his shoulder he is now in hospital. Gee what a feeling when that lump hit us.
We now have some respect for Jerries gunners.
No fighters
Trip lasted 3-45
[page break]
70
3rd Rhur Trip.
PFF 582 Sqd
15th Operation
12th Oct 1944. Day.
Wanneikel (Rhur.)
Worst trip we have had.
Not much flak but deadly accurate and we seemed to be the target all the time.
We were it on the way to the target but no extensive damage was done then we were hit on the bombing run. After bombing we were hit and the port inner started to smoke after it was feathered the starboard inner packed up and we found we couldn’t feather it.
The starboard outer had a bad oil leak and the temp went up to 130. With only two engines running we lost height down to 4500 and coming back away from the target they let us have it again this time hitting
[page break]
the oxygen supply lines.
We tried to get a landing field in Belgium and France but it was no good and we knew we should have to get it back to England. So we went south down France and across where the channel was the narrowest and obtained permission to land at Manston their emergency run way. With a deadly cross wind we got the undercart down with emergency air and managed to feather the starb inner engine. Then to finish things off in a fine style we found the starb wheel was flat. Well, on landing we swung over to starboard and ripped off one of the wheels. Then the kite caught fire and boy I reckon no one ever got out of a kite so quick as us. So after all the trouble we had, we had the pleasure of seeing the kite burn after one of the tanks had exploded and I guess that was the end of Apple.
But it was pretty hot and we didnt [sic] feel safe until we had two feet firmly on the floor.
Well thats [sic] the third time we have been shot up over the happy valley and believe me the Rhur is no picnic at night so in daylight as can be guessed it’s pretty grim.
Gee it was a close one.
[page break]
75
[aerial photograph]
Confirmed not only biggest RAF daylight raid but the heaviest raid ever on any target in the war (up to now). We dropped more than 4500 tons in 25 minutes.
BBC reporter gave very good description of the target as he saw it.
4th Rhur Trips.
16 Operation: PFF 582 Sqd.
Oct 14 1944. Day (Morning).
Bombed at 0907.
Duisburg. (Happy Valley).
Another Rhur trip but much more pleasant.
Flak didn’t hinder us at all got quite a real good bombing run and the target was well ablaze before I bombed.
Was the biggest show put on by Bomber Command in daylight over 1,000 bombers took part.
This was why the flak didn’t bother us very much.
No enemy fighters. We had 16 squadrons of fighters escorting us.
Very good trip it lasted 3 hrs 35 mins.
We carried incendries.
[page break]
80
5th Rhur Trip.
PFF 582 Sqd.
17th Operation.
Duisburg. Night.
Attacked at approx 0320 on morning of 15th Oct 1944.
Saw blaze from fires started in last raid about 100 miles from target and when we were coming back they were still visible 150 miles away.
The target was one huge blazing inferno but the flak was still rather active.
Saw no fighters
Didn’t’ fly with my crew I went with a crew whose engineer was on leave.
Not a bad trip picture of Lanc. dropping incenderies over Duisburg.
[page break]
85
18th Operation. PFF 582 Sqd
15 Oct. Night.
Wilhelmshaven.
Attacked at 1535 sat night. Naval base. Was the target.
Not a great deal of flak but it was pretty accurate.
Had to bomb on DR as we were first on and no Tis were down when we were there.
We were attacked by a fighter but rear gunner saw it coming in and we did evasive action and lost it.
Quite a good trip it lasted 4 hrs 10 mins
Kite was “B”eer
[page break]
16 Day Oct 1944.
Daily Express reporters impressions of the two Duisburg.
[newspaper cutting]
[page break]
90
6th Rhur Trip
PFF. 582 Sqd.
19th Operation
25 Oct. 1944. Daylight.
Target Homberg. Rhur.
(Opposite side of river to Duisburg)
Flak rather intense mainly from Duisburg.
No Fighters
Quite a sight to see all the bombers going out to Essen and to our target.
Couldn’t see results of the attack because of the thick cloud.
Saw one kite or what was left of it burning might have been a scare-crow.
Trip lasted approx 4 hrs
Kite was “E”asy.
[page break]
93
[aerial photograph]
PFF 582 Sqd.
20th Operation. 28 Oct 1944.
Walcheren.
Dutch Island.
Target Defence Positions.
No flak.
No fighters.
Bang on attack
bombed at 4,700
Perfect run in and got an aiming point.
Wouldn’t mind rest of trips like this one.
It only lasted about 2 hrs.
First time we have had icing as bad as this.
[page break]
98
PFF 582 Sqd.
Night
21st Operation. 30 Oct 1944.
Cologne.
Bags of predicted flak. Quiet [sic] a few fighters around
No searchlights.
Almost a full moon. 10 cloud. Bombed on Wanganowi [sic] flares.
Flak was shooting them out of the sky.
Hit in both starboard fuel tanks lost a lot of fuel. Both generators went for a burton and the 1196 us.
It lasted about. 4-40.
This is another trip I’ve done with another crew.
900 aircraft on.
[page break]
103
BBC reporter Richard Dimbleby flew with our squadron on the way back they were calling up George and asking if Richard was alright I didnt [sic] hear them call up and as if we were okay in L London though
PFF 582 Sqd.
22nd Operation. 31st Oct 1944.
Cologne.
Night.
Not very much flak. Bags of fighters and quite a lot were the new jet propulsion type
No searchlights.
full moon made almost like a daylight operation.
Were not hit at all by flak
Saw one kite shot down by flak over the target.
500 aircraft took part.
Went with same crew as last time.
[page break]
108
[indecipherable word] aiming point.
[newspaper cutting]
PFF 582 Sqd
23rd Operation 16 Nov 1944.
Target “Julich”.
Daylight.
Medium flak
No fighters seen
Had to feather port outer just out of target area. But not through enemy action. Made two runs over target.
Over 2,000 aircraft on these targets today. Most important raids since D day. Said this was the beginning of end of the Third Reich as the Americans were to advance across Rhine. These raids were prelude to the advance.
No flak damage this time again.
Trip lasted 4 hrs.
[page break]
113
[aerial photograph]
Caught a packet.
Saw no kites shot down but the bombing seemed rather haphazard.
Trip took 3 3/4 Hrs.
7th Rhur. PFF 582 Sqd.
24th Operation 18th Nov 1944
Target “Munster”.
Daylight.
No fighters.
Medium Flak.
Biggest daylight penetration by RAF Bomber Command and fighter opposition was expected but none were met.
Pretty accurate flak at points into the target but nothing to worry about. As we approached Munster we saw a bit of flak coming up and then it stopped all together
Had some trouble with Gee at take off and just before the target a hatch blew off and with the noise it made we thought we had
[page break]
118
8th Rhur trip PFF582 Sqd
25 th Operation. 21 Nov 1944.
Night
Target Castrop Rauxiel [sic]
Synthetic oil plant.
Medium flak.
Few fighters.
Bags of searchlights.
Got hit last time we went there but didn’t this time. Although the flak seemed pretty accurate.
The searchlights coned us once but we soon got away and I wasn’t sorry either.
We had no trouble with the fighters.
Not a bad trip saw bags of activity as we passed over the front line.
trip lasted 4 1/2 hrs approx.
[page break]
123
9th Ruhr Trip.
PFF 582 Sqd.
26 Operation. 27 November.
Target. Neuss.
Slight heavy flak.
No fighters.
Few searchlights.
No trouble at all on this trip one of the quietest trips we have had.
Saw bags of activity on the front line and they were firing at us with light flak but it caused us no trouble.
Trip lasted approx. 4 1/2 hrs.
[page break]
128
10th Rhur Trip
PFF582 Sqd.
27 Operation. 30 Nov.
Target. Duisburg.
Night.
Medium heavy flak
Very few searchlights.
No fighters.
a real good trip no trouble at all and it seemed quite a decent prang.
Use ground and sky markers but cloud hid ground Tis quite effectively.
Trip lasted 4 1/4 hrs.
[page break]
133
PFF 582 Sqd.
28 Operation. 3 Dec 1944.
Target. Heimbach.
Daylight.
Dam Busting.
Flak Nil.
Fighters Few. (ME 262)
Tactical Target.
Unable to bomb covered with cloud which was 1000 ft base so had to cancel raid. Brought all bombs back
Very disappointing raid
Raid lasted 4 1/2 hrs.
[page break]
138
PFF 582 Sqd.
29th Operation. 6th Dec 1944
Target: Leipzig.
Oil Refiner.
Bags of heavy flak.
Bags fighters.
No Searchlights.
Being the second largest oil refinery in Germany it was very well defended.
Were attacked by fighter. But we evaded them okay. Thanks to gunners spotting him.
Saw a target which was pranged earlier on by Bomber Command and boy was it blazing. This trip tired us out more than any. Maybe because we are used to the Rhur.
Trip lasted. 6 3/4 hrs.
[page break]
143
11 Rhur Trip.
PFF 582 Sqd.
30th Operation. 13 Dec 1944
Night.
Target Essen.
Rail Centre.
Very heavy heavy flak.
Lot of fighters.
No searchlights.
Not a bad trip but the flak was pretty heavy and very accurate
Quiet [sic] a few jet fighters knocking around but we wern’t [sic] attacked.
saw two kites shot down over target.
Trip lasted approx 4 hrs.
[page break]
148
[aerial photograph]
PFF 582Sqd.
31st Operation 15 Dec
Target. Ludwigshaven
Chemical Industry.
Slight heavy flak.
No fighters.
Lots of searchlights.
Feathered engine going to target after it had caught fire. That was after I had feathered the wrong one. I sure had my finger jammed then. Had a little difficulty on landing with choosing the grass to land on instead of the runway. Finger trouble again. Looked a real good prang.
Trip lasted approx 5 hrs.
[page break]
152
12th Rhur Trip.
152.
PFF 582 Sqd.
32nd Operation. 18 Dec.
Target
Duisburg.
Slight heavy flak.
Few fighters.
Few searchlights.
Flak did cause us to alter course coming out of the target but other than that it caused us no trouble at all.
One fighter crossed just above us from starboard to port but he didnt [sic] see us.
Coming out of the target we were attacked. Rear Gunner let him have it. but he didnt [sic] return our fire and we lost him. Not a bad trip.
It lasted 4 3/4 hrs.
[page break]
End of Tour.
No of trips 32
German 26
French 5
Dutch 1.
No of Daylights. 14
No of Nights 18
No of Rhur Trips 12
Total No of Points 152.
Pilot. JE Brown (three engine Brown they call me)
Navigator. F Dockar
Bomb Aimer. M Reid
Wireless Operator.
Mid Upper Gunner. J. D. Smith
Rear Gunner. [signature]
Engineer. [signature]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
ER James War Diary
Description
An account of the resource
A detailed diary of ER James' operations. On the first pages are a photograph of his crew and their names. Included with the text are several aerial photographs and newspaper cuttings.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
38 page handwritten diary
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Diary
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Stuttgart
France--Le Havre
France--Creil
France--Paris
France--Blaye
France--Caen
Poland--Szczecin
Russia (Federation)--Kaliningrad (Kaliningradskai︠a︡ oblastʹ)
Germany--Castrop-Rauxel
Germany--Saarbrücken
Germany--Wanne-Eickel
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Netherlands--Walcheren
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Jülich
Germany--Neuss
Germany--Leipzig
Germany--Essen
France--Bordeaux (Nouvelle-Aquitaine)
Germany--Osnabrück
Germany--Ludwigshafen am Rhein
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
France
Germany
Poland
Netherlands
Russia (Federation)
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
YJamesER[Ser#-DoB]v1
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Jan Waller
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
E R James
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-07-23
1944-07-24
1944-07-28
1944-07-31
1944-08-03
1944-08-04
1944-08-05
1944-08-07
1944-08-29
1944-09-11
1944-09-13
1944-09-15
1944-10-05
1944-10-06
1944-10-12
1944-10-14
1944-10-17
1944-10-15
1944-10-16
1944-10-25
1944-10-28
1944-10-30
1944-10-31
1944-11-16
1944-11-18
1944-11-21
1944-11-30
1944-12-03
1944-12-06
1944-12-13
1944-12-15
1944-12-18
576 Squadron
582 Squadron
aerial photograph
air gunner
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
bomb aimer
bomb struck
bombing
Bombing of Trossy St Maximin (3 August 1944)
flight engineer
forced landing
Halifax
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
Ju 88
Lancaster
Me 262
Mosquito
navigator
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
Pathfinders
pilot
RAF Elsham Wolds
RAF Lindholme
RAF Little Staughton
RAF Manston
RAF Worksop
Spitfire
tactical support for Normandy troops
target indicator
target photograph
wireless operator / air gunner
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1350/28421/LJenkins138520v1.2.pdf
103a01b1224e127f4f4b23c6c49dd6f0
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Jenkins, F C
Description
An account of the resource
Five items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant F C Jenkins (1920 - 2000) and contains his log book, biography and three photographs. He flew a total of 56 operations as a navigator with 149, 148 and 271 Squadrons.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Kevin Jenkins and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-05-14
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Jenkins, FC
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
F C Jenkins’ observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book
Description
An account of the resource
Observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book for F C Jenkins, navigator, covering the period from 3 January 1940 to 10 May 1953. Detailing his flying training, operations flown and post war flying duties with 575 Squadron, 46 Squadron and 14 Reserve Flying School. He was stationed at RAF Calne, RAF West Freugh, RAF Lossiemouth, RAF Mildenhall, RAF Stradishall, RAF Luqa, RAF Kabrit, RAF Cranage, RAF Penrhos, RAF Llandwrog, RAF Down Ampney, RAF Blakehill Farm, RAF Broadwell, RAF Welford, RAF Stoney Cross, RAF Manston, RAF Abingdon and RAF Hamble. Aircraft flow in were Anson, Battle, Wellington, Blenheim, Lancaster, Dakota, Oxford, Stirling, Ventura, Viking and Tiger Moth. He flew a total of 56 operations, 27 with 149 Squadron, 25 with 148 Squadron and 4 with 271 Squadron. His pilots on operations were Pilot Officer Fisher, Squadron Leader Heather, Warrant Officer Powell, Sergeant Pascoe and Flying Officer Anderson. Targets were Boulogne, Flushing, Kiel, Gelsenkirchen, Berlin, Bremen, Mannheim, Turin, Bordeaux, Milan, Venice, Wilhelmshaven, Brest, Cologne, Duisburg, Tripoli, Benghazi, Rhodes, Menidi, Maleme, Derna, Naples, Messina, Arnhem and Rhine.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LJenkins138520v1
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Egypt
France
Germany
Great Britain
Greece
Italy
Libya
Malta
Netherlands
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
England--Berkshire
England--Cheshire
England--Hampshire
England--Kent
England--Oxfordshire
England--Suffolk
England--Wiltshire
France--Bordeaux (Nouvelle-Aquitaine)
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Brest
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Rhineland
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Greece--Aitōlia kai Akarnania
Greece--Maleme
Greece--Rhodes
Italy--Milan
Italy--Messina
Italy--Naples
Italy--Turin
Italy--Venice
Libya--Darnah
Libya--Tripoli
Netherlands--Arnhem
Netherlands--Vlissingen
Scotland--Dumfries and Galloway
Scotland--Morar
Wales--Gwynedd
Egypt--Suez Canal
Libya--Banghāzī
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
North Africa
Egypt
Egypt--Kibrit
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Mike Connock
Cara Walmsley
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1940-10-07
1940-10-08
1940-10-09
1940-10-10
1940-10-13
1940-10-15
1940-10-16
1940-10-20
1940-10-23
1940-10-24
1940-10-26
1940-10-29
1940-11-01
1940-11-02
1940-11-13
1940-11-17
1940-11-25
1940-11-29
1940-12-04
1940-12-05
1940-12-08
1940-12-09
1940-12-16
1940-12-18
1940-12-19
1941-01-09
1941-01-12
1941-01-13
1941-01-29
1941-02-04
1941-02-14
1941-02-24
1941-02-26
1941-03-01
1941-03-02
1941-03-11
1941-03-12
1941-04-16
1941-04-18
1941-04-21
1941-04-23
1941-04-24
1941-05-02
1941-05-03
1941-05-12
1941-05-16
1941-05-17
1941-05-24
1941-05-25
1941-06-01
1941-06-13
1941-06-14
1941-06-15
1941-06-17
1941-06-18
1941-06-21
1941-06-22
1941-06-27
1941-06-29
1941-07-01
1941-07-02
1941-07-03
1941-07-06
1941-07-07
1941-07-09
1941-07-10
1941-07-11
1941-07-14
1941-07-20
1941-07-21
1944-09-10
1944-09-11
1944-09-17
1944-09-19
1944-09-23
1945-03-24
148 Squadron
149 Squadron
20 OTU
Advanced Flying Unit
air gunner
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
Battle
Blenheim
Bombing and Gunnery School
C-47
Lancaster
navigator
Operational Training Unit
Oxford
RAF Abingdon
RAF Cranage
RAF Llandwrog
RAF Lossiemouth
RAF Manston
RAF Mildenhall
RAF Penrhos
RAF Stoney Cross
RAF Stradishall
RAF West Freugh
Stirling
Tiger Moth
training
Ventura
Wellington
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1541/28265/MGreenAW104402-160919-02.2.pdf
49d73f3c502b3ed0e5695a4ac04a67dc
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Green, Alan William
A W Green
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-09-19
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Green, AW
Description
An account of the resource
58 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Alan William Green (b. 1920, 104402, 1150518 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, photographs, diary and correspondence. He flew operation as a navigator with 218 Squadron before being shot down and becoming a prisoner of war.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Stuart Green and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Behind Enemy Lines
The WW2 Experiences of Alan William Green
Description
An account of the resource
A biography of Alan Green with personal photographs and headlines. It covers his training in Canada and UK. First squadron was 218 at Marham flying Wellingtons as a navigator, then Stirlings. He flew 22 operations and was shot down by friendly fire. He successfully baled out but was shot down again near Amsterdam. He was captured and spent the rest of the war at Stalag Luft 3. There is a section on life as
a prisoner of war and the Long March.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Stuart Green
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-05-06
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
52 page book
Language
A language of the resource
eng
deu
nld
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MGreenAW104402-160919-02
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Coventry
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Emden (Lower Saxony)
Germany--Essen
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Bremen
France--Paris
France--Brest
France--Laon
Belgium--Ostend
Denmark--Langeland
Czech Republic
France
Germany
Denmark
Belgium
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Warwickshire
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
218 Squadron
aircrew
Anson
bale out
Battle
bombing of Cologne (30/31 May 1942)
Distinguished Flying Cross
Dulag Luft
entertainment
escaping
Gneisenau
Hurricane
Me 110
memorial
navigator
prisoner of war
RAF Marham
RAF Tangmere
Scharnhorst
shot down
sport
Stalag Luft 3
Stirling
the long march
training
Wellington
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1541/28263/LGreenAW104402v1.1.pdf
850bd3cb4a0bce7d3ad0ffcbddedec1c
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Green, Alan William
A W Green
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-09-19
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Green, AW
Description
An account of the resource
58 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Alan William Green (b. 1920, 104402, 1150518 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, photographs, diary and correspondence. He flew operation as a navigator with 218 Squadron before being shot down and becoming a prisoner of war.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Stuart Green and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Alan Green's Royal Canadian Air Force observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LGreenAW104402v1
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Description
An account of the resource
A.W. Green’s RCAF Observer’s and Air Gunner’s Flying Log Book, from 14th January 1941 to 19th June 1942, detailing training and operations as a navigator. He was stationed at RCAF Base Port Albert (No. 1 Air Navigation School), Canadian Forces Base Picton (No. 31 Bombing and Gunnery School), RAF Benson (12 OTU), RAF Lichfield (27 OTU), RAF Lossiemouth (20 OTU) and RAF Marham (218 squadron). Aircraft in which flown: Anson, Battle, Wellington Ic and Stirling. His pilots on operations were Sergeant Griggs and Squadron Leader Ashworth. He completed a total of 20 night operations on the following targets in Belgium, Czech Republic, Denmark, France and Germany: Bremen, Brest, Cologne, Dortmund, Emden, Essen, Hamburg, Langelands Belt (Gardening), Lyons, Mannheim, Ostend, Paris (Gnome-Rhone works), Plzen, Scharnhost and Gneisau and Wilhelmshaven. Notes include 30/5/42: “TOOK AVM BALDWIN” (Air Officer Commanding No.3 Group).
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
David Leitch
Cara Walmsley
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Belgium
Canada
Czech Republic
Denmark
France
Germany
Great Britain
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Atlantic Ocean--Great Belt (Baltic Sea)
England--Norfolk
England--Oxfordshire
England--Staffordshire
Ontario
Scotland--Moray
Belgium--Ostend
Czech Republic--Plzeň
France--Brest
France--Lyon
France--Paris
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Emden (Lower Saxony)
Germany--Essen
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1941
1942
1941-12-16
1941-12-28
1942-01-07
1942-01-09
1942-01-11
1942-01-20
1942-02-12
1942-04-10
1942-04-11
1942-04-12
1942-04-13
1942-04-14
1942-04-15
1942-04-17
1942-04-25
1942-04-26
1942-05-02
1942-05-03
1942-05-04
1942-05-05
1942-05-17
1942-05-19
1942-05-20
1942-05-29
1942-05-30
1942-05-31
1942-06-01
1942-06-03
1942-06-04
1942-06-06
1942-06-07
12 OTU
20 OTU
218 Squadron
27 OTU
3 Group
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
bale out
Battle
bombing
Bombing and Gunnery School
bombing of Cologne (30/31 May 1942)
Gneisenau
mine laying
navigator
Operational Training Unit
RAF Benson
RAF Lichfield
RAF Lossiemouth
RAF Marham
Scharnhorst
Stirling
training
Wellington
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1484/27714/LCarpenterRB1291451v1.2.pdf
c131c492fd432051e4d11e0b14fc067f
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Carpenter, Ronald
R B Carpenter
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-02-11
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Carpenter, RB
Description
An account of the resource
27 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Ronald Carpenter DFM (149832 Royal Air Force). He flew a tour of operations as a bomb aimer with 10 Squadron and with 223 Squadron in 100 Group on electronic countermeasures. The collection contains his log book, documents and photographs.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Ronald Carpenter and catalogued by Trevor Hardcastle.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Ronald Carpenter’s observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LCarpenterRB1291451v1
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Air Force. Coastal Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
France
Germany
Great Britain
India
Italy
Poland
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
England--Berkshire
England--Lincolnshire
England--Norfolk
England--Surrey
England--Yorkshire
England--Wiltshire
France--Le Creusot
France--Le Havre
France--Lorient
France--Saint-Nazaire
Germany--Aachen
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Essen
Germany--Flensburg
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Koblenz
Germany--Krefeld
Germany--Mainz (Rhineland-Palatinate)
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Mönchengladbach
Germany--Munich
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Saarbrücken
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Italy--Genoa
Poland--Szczecin
Scotland--Ross and Cromarty
India--New Delhi
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending review
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Mike Connock
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1942-06-25
1942-06-26
1942-08-11
1942-09-01
1942-09-02
1942-09-04
1942-09-05
1942-09-10
1942-09-11
1942-09-14
1942-09-15
1942-09-26
1942-09-27
1942-10-13
1942-10-14
1942-10-23
1942-10-24
1942-11-15
1942-11-16
1943-01-14
1943-01-15
1943-01-21
1943-02-19
1943-02-25
1943-02-26
1943-02-27
1943-03-08
1943-03-09
1943-03-10
1943-03-11
1943-03-12
1943-04-08
1943-04-09
1943-04-10
1943-04-11
1943-04-20
1943-04-21
1943-05-25
1943-05-26
1943-05-27
1943-05-28
1943-06-11
1943-06-12
1943-06-19
1943-06-20
1943-06-21
1943-06-22
1943-07-13
1943-07-14
1943-08-10
1943-08-11
1944-10-09
1944-10-14
1944-10-15
1944-10-24
1944-11-18
1944-11-19
1944-11-21
1944-11-25
1944-11-27
1944-11-29
1944-11-30
1944-12-01
1944-12-02
1944-12-04
1944-12-08
Description
An account of the resource
Observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book for R B Carpenter, bomb aimer, covering the period from 16 May 1941 to 30 April 1945 and from 13 November 1950 to 27 May 1953. Detailing his flying training, operations flown, instructor duties and post war flying with 15 Reserve Flying School. He was stationed at RAF Evanton, RAF Cranwell, RAF Yatesbury, RAF Topcliffe, RAF Pocklington, RAF Melbourne, RAF Abingdon, RAF Manby, RAF Blakehill Farm, RAF Oulton, RAF New Delhi and RAF Redhill. Aircraft flown in were Proctor, Dominie, Whitley, Botha, Anson, Wellington, Halifax, Oxford, Blenheim, Martinet, Liberator and Dakota. He flew one operation with 102 Squadron, 28 operations with 10 Squadron and 13 operations with 223 Squadron, 3 daylight and 10 night operations in a radio counter measures role. Targets were Bremen, Le Havre, Saarbrucken, Dusseldorf, Wilhelmshaven, Flensburg, Kiel, Genoa, Lorient, St Nazaire, Nuremburg, Cologne, Munich, Stuttgart, Duisburg, Frankfurt, Stettin, Essen, Le Creusot, Krefeld, Aachen, Coblenz, Mainz, Mannheim, and Mönchengladbach. His pilots on operations were Squadron Leader Debenham, Flight Sergeant Virgo and Pilot Officer Tompson.
10 OTU
10 Squadron
100 Group
102 Squadron
12 OTU
223 Squadron
Air Gunnery School
aircrew
Anson
B-24
Blenheim
bomb aimer
bombing
Botha
C-47
Dominie
Halifax
Halifax Mk 2
Martinet
Operational Training Unit
Oxford
Proctor
RAF Abingdon
RAF Cranwell
RAF Evanton
RAF Manby
RAF Melbourne
RAF Oulton
RAF Pocklington
RAF Topcliffe
RAF Yatesbury
training
Wellington
Whitley
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1301/27450/LKnoxT1823036v1.2.pdf
944129a62f8bcdd9828737ba81c187e5
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Knox, Tommy
Thomas Knox
T Knox
Description
An account of the resource
Three items. An oral history interview with Warrant Officer Tommy Knox (1925 - 2020, 1823036 Royal Air Force) his log book and a physical training certificate. He completed 40 operations: 22 with 149 Squadron, mostly low-level supply drops to the Maquis in France, and the rest on Radio Counter Measures duties with 199 Squadron.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Tommy Knox and catalogued by IBCC Digital Archive staff.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2019-06-26
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Knox, T
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
T Knox’s flying log book for flight engineers
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Mike Connock
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LKnoxT1823036v1
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Belgium
France
Germany
Great Britain
Middle East
Netherlands
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Atlantic Ocean--Kiel Bay
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
Belgium--Brussels
England--Cheshire
England--Norfolk
England--Oxfordshire
England--Shropshire
England--Suffolk
England--Yorkshire
Europe--Frisian Islands
France--Brest
France--Laon
France--Lille
Germany--Koblenz
Germany--Mönchengladbach
France--Livet-et-Gavet
France--Pas-de-Calais
France--Saint-Malo
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Saarbrücken
France--Strasbourg
Germany--Sylt
Germany--Trier
Germany--Wiesbaden
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Middle East--Palestine
Netherlands--IJssel Lake
Wales--Flintshire
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944
1945
1946
1947
1944-03-31
1944-04-05
1944-04-06
1944-04-09
1944-04-10
1944-04-22
1944-04-23
1944-04-24
1944-04-25
1944-04-26
1944-04-27
1944-04-28
1944-04-29
1944-04-30
1944-05-01
1944-05-05
1944-05-06
1944-05-07
1944-05-08
1944-05-09
1944-05-10
1944-05-11
1944-05-28
1944-05-29
1944-06-06
1944-06-07
1944-06-17
1944-06-18
1944-06-24
1944-06-25
1944-07-04
1944-07-05
1944-07-06
1944-07-10
1944-07-11
1944-07-17
1944-08-02
1944-09-11
1944-09-12
1944-09-13
1944-09-14
1944-09-15
1944-09-16
1944-09-18
1944-09-23
1944-09-24
1944-09-25
1944-09-26
1944-09-27
1944-09-28
1944-09-29
1944-10-05
1944-10-06
1944-10-19
1944-10-20
1944-10-21
1944-10-29
1944-10-30
1944-10-31
1944-11-01
1944-11-04
1944-11-10
1944-11-11
Description
An account of the resource
Flying log book for flight engineers for T Knox, covering the period from 30 January 1944 to 17 January 1947. Detailing his flying training, operations flown and post war duties as a parachute instructor. He was stationed at RAF Stradishall, RAF Lakenheath, RAF Methwold, RAF North Creake, RAF Finningly, RAF Sealand, RAF Ringway, RAF Cosford, RAF Upper Heyford and RAF Aqir. Aircraft flown in were, Stirling, Halifax, Lancaster, Dakota and Horsa Glider. He flew a total of 40 operations, 21 with 149 Squadron, 2 daylight and 19 night time operations, of which 9 were special operations to France, and 19 night time operations with 199 Squadron carrying out radio counter measure support of bombing operations. Targets were, Lille, Laon, Kiel Bay, Frisian Islands, St Malo, Brest, Pas de Calais, North Sea, Brussels, Saarbrucken, Sylt, Wilhelmshaven, Mönchengladbach, Koblenz, Zuider Sea, Trier, Strasbourg, Duisberg, Wiesbaden, Gavet and Munster. His pilots on operations were Flight Lieutenant Coventry and Flight Sergeant Millar. This item was sent to the IBCC Digital Archive already in digital form. No better quality copies are available.
149 Squadron
1657 HCU
199 Squadron
aircrew
bombing
bombing of the Pas de Calais V-1 sites (24/25 June 1944)
C-47
flight engineer
Halifax
Heavy Conversion Unit
Horsa
Lancaster
mine laying
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
RAF Aqir
RAF Cosford
RAF Finningley
RAF Lakenheath
RAF Methwold
RAF North Creake
RAF Ringway
RAF Sealand
RAF Stradishall
RAF Upper Heyford
Stirling
training
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1554/27351/MMcDermottC1119618-161216-09.2.pdf
409928d76fe16db3333a0de5bd60f85f
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
McDermott, Colin
C McDermott
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-11-03
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
McDermott, C
Description
An account of the resource
87 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Colin McDermott (1119618 Royal Air Force). He served as an air gunnery instructor and flew operations as an air gunner with 98 Squadron. Contains his log book, papers and photographs and includes issues of 'Evidence in Camera'. <br /><br />The collection also contains albums of photographs from his training at <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1696">Evanton</a> in 1943, taken during his service in <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1699">Denmark </a>and some <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1698">duplicate </a>photographs.<br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Barbara Bury and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[Indecipherable pencil markings] [signature][Indecipherable initials]
EVIDENCE IN CAMERA
[Sketch]
CHESSELL
VOLUME 3 NUMBER 13 28th JUNE 1943
ISSUED BY AIR MINISTRY A.C.A.S.(I)
FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY
[page break]
EVIDENCE IN CAMERA
1. This O.U.O. document may be issued to Officers’ Mess and Station Reference Libraries. (K.R. & A.C.I. 882, 2236(c), 2287.)
2. The only legitimate use which may be made of official documents or information derived from them is for the furtherance of the public service in the performance of official duties.
3. The publication of official documents, information from them, reproduction of extracts or their use for personal controversy, or for any private or public purpose without due authority is a breach of official trust under the OFFICIAL SECRETS ACTS, 1911 and 1920, and will be dealt with accordingly. (K.R. & A.C.I. 1071, 1072, 2238).
4. Copies not required for record purposes should be disposed of as Secret Waste in accordance with A.M.O. A.411/41.
SEE FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ON BACK OF COVER.
[page break]
[Sketch]
Scott.
“Even if you have got a job of work to do, there is no need to talk about it.”
289
[page break]
NIGHT ATTACK ON DUSSELDORF
[Photograph]
A vivid impression of the shower of incendiaries dropped on DUSSELDORF is provided by this night photograph taken over the centre of the town in the early stages of the attack on 11/12.6.43. The River Rhine (A), the Rhine Bridge (B) and Karls Platz (C) can be plotted.
290
[page break]
[Photograph]
Another aircraft, flying over DUSSELDORF, approximately half an hour later, photographed smoke billowing over the target at a great height. Incendiaries or small fires produced dozens of light tracks while the camera shutter was open.
291
[page break]
INDUSTRIAL DAMAGE AT MÜNSTER
[Photograph]
In the attack on MÜNSTER by the R.A.F. on 11/12.6.43 damage was almost entirely concentrated in the Port and industrial area to the S.E. of the town and in the district of Sankt-Mauritz. Fires were still burning at many points when this reconnaissance photograph was taken. Dockside buildings (A) and industrial premises (B) were destroyed or severely damaged. A gas holder and buildings (C) of the Town Gas Works were destroyed and the Halle Münsterland (D) almost demolished. A building (E) of the Municipal Power Station and three-quarters of the main building (F) of the Goods Station were gutted. The Railway Repair Shops (G) were damaged.
292
[page break]
[Photograph]
[Photograph]
REGGIO DI CALABRIA
When 17 Liberators of the U.S.A.A.F. attacked REGGIO DI CALABRIA on 24.5.43, a direct hit was made on what was probably a munition train. An oblique photograph (right) taken during the attack shows a column of smoke which rose thousands of feet in the air after a violent explosion.
293
[page break]
WILHELMSHAVEN NAVAL BASE AGAIN ATTACKED
[Photograph]
When these U.S.B.C. Fortress aircraft were over WILHELMSHAVEN on 11.6.43 the windward smoke generators had only just started while smoke generating boats (A) were proceeding to position in the Jade River. Bomb bursts (B) were photographed in the reclaimed area north of the harbour and more bombs (C) are dropping. The attack was developed in two phases and barracks, workshops and railway premises were among the buildings damaged. Quays, roads, bridges and railway tracks were also hit.
294
[page break]
[Photograph]
WILHELMSHAVEN
In a concentration of bomb bursts in the Scheer Hafen-Tirpitz Hafen area several hits are seen in the vicinity of five camouflaged oil storage tanks. Two of the bombs caused explosions which sent up columns of smoke to heights of 2,000 ft. and 1,500 ft. respectively at the time of photography.
295
[page break]
[Photograph]
CAPTURED ENEMY EQUIPMENT
Oblique and vertical photographs of medium semi-tracked tractors similar to vehicles seen in the ground photographs on the opposite page.
[Photograph]
296
[page break]
ENEMY EQUIPMENT.
Semi-tracked Tractors.
[Photograph]
Semi-tracked tractors are widely used in the German Army as gun tractors and for other purposes. Of the several types the 12 ton model towing an 8.8 cm. flak gun is illustrated (right) and the three ton model (below) is towing the standard field piece, a 10.5 cm. gun howitzer. The gun crew and ammunition can be accommodated on the vehicles.
[Photograph]
297
[page break]
[Photograph]
ENEMY TANKS
Two oblique photographs of captured enemy tanks at a British Depot in the Middle East. (A and A1). Two rows of Italian M13/40s, some damaged. German Pz Kw 111s (B) and one damaged Pz Kw IV (C).
[Photograph]
298
[page break]
[Photograph]
A vertical view of the same area as the oblique photographs on the opposite page, showing part of the row of M13/40s (left), the Pz Kw 111s (right) and one Pz Kw IV (bottom right). All these tanks show some signs of damage either to their turrets, tracks or body plating.
299
[page break]
[Photograph]
NORTH FORMATION SIDINGS – ANTWERP
The North Formation Sidings situated North of ANTWERP have direct access to the dock areas and the main railway lines. These sidings were originally constructed to deal with an anticipated increase in dock traffic but came into disuse during the slump of 1931 before they were completed. A comparatively small amount of traffic is now being regularly handled in two of the groups of sidings, the other four groups being invariably empty or used for the storage of a limited quantity of rolling stock.
300 – 301
[page break]
KNOW YOUR PORTS. CATANIA.
[Photograph]
CATANIA is one of the supply ports on the East coast of Sicily, and at which vessels from Naples and Messina have recently berthed.
302
[page break]
[Photograph]
CATANIA. Smoke from fires started in the first phase of a daylight attack on CATANIA Harbour on 11.5.43 was pouring across the target when the second phase of the attack was made. Two direct hits were registered on a medium-sized merchant vessel and there were several near misses, while rolling stock on the main quay is seen blazing fiercely. There are two Me 323 six-engined aircraft on the airfield.
303
[page break]
GERMAN AIRCRAFT REPAIR FACTORY IN NORWAY
[Photograph]
A variety of German seaplanes is usually seen at the HORTEN seaplane base and repair factory. An He 59 (A), a Ju 52 floatplane (B) and the assembled fuselage of an He 115 (C) are seen at the moorings, and an Ar 196 (D) is beached. A Do 24 (E) and an He 115 (F) are ashore. Fuselages (G), rows of floats (H), two assembled fuselages (I) and part of a damaged aircraft (J) are evidence of the repair work done here.
304
[page break]
FIGHTER COMMAND COMBAT FILMS
These enlargements from a cine gun film show an Fw 190.
[Photographs]
[Photographs]
[Photographs]
[Photographs]
[Photographs]
The well streamlined exhaust outlet is a recognition feature of the Fw 190 seen from the rear.
305
[page break]
[Photograph]
[Photograph]
CAMOUFLAGED SHELTERS, DUNKIRK
Left: E/R boat shelters at DUNKIRK before camouflage. The flak positions (A) are conspicuous.
Above: The concrete roof has been disruptively painted in startling patterns (B) which help to conceal the flak positions. Work on the roofing over the recesses (C) for housing the two outer caissons of the new lock appears almost completed. (Compare with Page 95, Vol 3, No. 4.)
306
[page break]
HANGAR CAMOUFLAGE
Right: Hangars (A) at the Blohm und Voss Factory at HAMBURG/FINKEN-WARDER have been camouflaged with draped netting which has been disruptively painted (B) and garnished with dummy bushes (C). (See Page 8, Vol. 2, No. 1 for earlier cover.)
[Photograph]
Below: The hangars at BRUSSELS/EVERE have been heavily camouflaged with dummy gables (A), chimneys (shadows at B), etc., to blend with the buildings in the adjoining town. Factory type buildings have been combined into blocks by covering with darkened netting (C) and dummy houses (D) erected round the edges.
[Photograph]
307
[page break]
HISTORIC PHOTOGRAPHS OF U-BOAT’S SURRENDER
[Photograph]
[Photograph]
A Hudson operating from Iceland on 27.8.41 attacked a U-boat that was starting to submerge. Two minutes after the explosion of the depth charges the U-boat resurfaced and a number of the crew appeared on the conning tower and deck. The Hudson machine gunned the U-boat and a few minutes later a white flag was displayed. The lower photograph shows the crowded conning tower after the surrender. The Hudson, which kept the U-boat covered while surface craft were on their way, was subsequently relieved by Catalinas and other Hudsons. The upper photograph was taken the following day with the crew still crowded on the conning tower and deck.
308
[page break]
[Photograph]
[Photograph]
Ultimately an anti-submarine trawler and, at dawn on the 28th, a destroyer arrived. The U-boat was taken in tow and beached safely on the coast of Iceland. Right: Two naval officers from the destroyer in a Carley float going alongside the U-boat. Above: Another view taken a few minutes later after the officers had gone aboard.
309
[page break]
[Photograph]
[Photograph]
BREASTWORKS AT OSTEND BATTERIES.
Owing to the amount of water in this area near OSTEND breastworks for defensive purposes had to be constructed instead of trenches. These consist of parallel mounds of earth, breast high, with the gap in between being comparable with the dug trench. The hard cast shadow seen at (A), (left) is effectively reduced by the draping of the camouflage netting over the breastworks (A1) (above). Left: (B) Light flak; (C) Wire; (D) M/G posts. (E) Range finder; (F) Ammunition bunkers; (G) Command post. Above (H) Wire; (I) Light flak; (J) Command post; (K) M/G posts; (L) Ammunition bunkers; (M) Auxiliary command post.
310
[page break]
[Photograph]
LEEUWARDEN Airfield was originally a civil aerodrome and was ploughed up at the time of the German invasion. The Germans enlarged the airfield to more than double its size, built runways, hangars, dispersal areas, etc., and transformed it into one of the most important operational bases in Holland. It has been used as a base for minelaying bombers, single and twin-engined fighters and night fighters and also as an alternative aerodrome for bomber and reconnaissance aircraft based on other Dutch airfields.
311
[page break]
PROBLEM PICTURE.
[Photograph]
WHAT IS THIS?
Answer at Foot of This Page
ANSWER TO PROBLEM PICTURE ABOVE.
[NB: Text is upside down in original]
Aircraft hangar at EINDHOVEN camouflaged with draped netting and dummy bushes.
312
[page break]
(4334), 51-9832, 2900, 28/6/43, 45.246,
C. & E. LAYTON LTD, London, E.C.4.
[page break]
EVIDENCE IN CAMERA
This weekly document will consist of a collection of illustrations varying in number in each issue according to the quantity of material of sufficient interest and suitable for reproduction that is received.
2. Requests for material to be included in this document should be submitted to Command Headquarters, who, after consideration, will submit them to Air Ministry, A.D.I.(Ph.). Any useful suggestions as regards contents will receive full consideration and will be welcomed.
3. Distribution is carried out by Air Ministry (A.I. I) and any requests for fewer or additional copies must be made through Group Headquarters who will ensure the maximum possible economy.
4. Under no circumstances must any of the illustrations be reproduced by Units in the British Isles. Further copies can be printed from the existing blocks and independent photographic reproduction would be a waste of material and labour to the detriment of the National War Effort.
5. The distribution of photographs to the general public is carried out through the Press who are supplied with photographs which have been specially selected for their general interest and have been published after careful consideration by the Security Branch and by the Ministry of Information; it is therefore unnecessary as well as undesirable to communicate any of the contents of this document, either directly or by discussion in public places, to persons not enjoying the privilege of serving in H.M. Forces.
6. The document has not been officially graded as Secret or Confidential in order that the widest distribution may be given, but Commanding Officers should use their discretion to ensure that the appropriate information is available only to those whose work will benefit.
7. The necessity for security cannot be over emphasised, for although this document is not marked Secret some of its contents may occasionally be of value to the enemy. Every care must be taken to prevent such information being disclosed.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Evidence in Camera Vol 3 No 13
Description
An account of the resource
A magazine of aerial photographs covering incendiaries dropping on Dusseldorf, port and industrial areas, captured enemy equipment, railway sidings at Antwerp, a seaplane base, a Fw 190 under attack, boat shelters at Dunkirk, camouflaged hangars at Hamburg, U-boats surrendering, breastworks at Ostend, a rebuilt airfield at Leeuwarden and a problem picture of a camouflaged hangar.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1943-06-27
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MMcDermottC1119618-161216-09
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
United States Army Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Italy--Reggio di Calabria
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Belgium--Antwerp
Italy--Catania
Norway--Horten
Germany--Hamburg
Belgium--Brussels
France--Dunkerque
Iceland
Belgium--Ostend
Netherlands--Leeuwarden
Netherlands--Eindhoven
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
Germany--Düsseldorf
France
Italy
Germany
Belgium
Netherlands
Norway
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Air Ministry
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
28 page booklet
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Angela Gaffney
aerial photograph
B-17
B-24
bombing
Catalina
Fw 190
Hudson
incendiary device
Ju 52
reconnaissance photograph
submarine
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1554/27342/MMcDermottC1119618-161216-05.2.pdf
9be96021caa4c32b7b242a7a67b0a435
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
McDermott, Colin
C McDermott
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-11-03
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
McDermott, C
Description
An account of the resource
87 items. The collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Colin McDermott (1119618 Royal Air Force). He served as an air gunnery instructor and flew operations as an air gunner with 98 Squadron. Contains his log book, papers and photographs and includes issues of 'Evidence in Camera'. <br /><br />The collection also contains albums of photographs from his training at <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1696">Evanton</a> in 1943, taken during his service in <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1699">Denmark </a>and some <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1698">duplicate </a>photographs.<br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Barbara Bury and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
VOLUME 4 – NUMBER 6 – AUGUST 9TH 1943
[Inserted] [underlined] F/Lt Skinner [/underlined] [/Inserted]
EVIDENCE IN CAMERA
[Inserted] [underlined] FWH Hall. [/underlined] G/C. [/Inserted]
[picture]
[underlined] Gorring [/underlined]
ISSUED BY AIR MINISTRY A.C.A.S. (1)
FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY
[page break]
EVIDENCE IN CAMERA
1. This O.U.O. document may be issued to Officers' Mess and Station Reference Libraries. (K.R. & A.C.I. 882.2236(c). 2287.)
2. The only legitimate use which may be made of official documents or information derived from them is for the furtherance of the public service in the performance of official duties.
3. The publication of official documents, information from them, reproduction of extracts or their use for personal controversy, or for any private or public purpose without due authority is a breach of official trust under the OFFICIAL SECRETS ACTS, 1911 and 1920, and will be dealt with accordingly. (K.R. & A.C.I. 1071, 1072, 2238).
4. Copies not required for record purposes should be disposed of as Secret Waste in accordance with A.M.O. A.411/41.
SEE FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ON BACK OF COVER.
[page break]
KNOW YOUR M.T.
phipps '43
[cartoon]
Personnel-carriers (Mks. I & II) Parked at Tactical Rendezvous.
121
[page break]
AIR PHOTOGRAPHS OF ALLIED AND ENEMY TANKS
[photograph]
[inserted] Pz Kw I
Sd Kfz 222
CHURCHILL
PZ KW III [/inserted]
[photograph]
[inserted] Pz Kw III
Pz Kw I
AUTOBLINDA
Pz Kw II
Sd KFZ 222
Pz Kw III [/inserted]
These two pages of oblique photographs taken by Fighter Command at a tank demonstration show examples, from various aspects, of Allied and enemy A.F.V.'s.
[photograph]
[inserted] SHERMAN
AUTOBLINDA
Pz Kw I
CHURCHILL
Sd Kfz 222
Pz Kw III [/inserted]
122
[page break]
[photograph]
[inserted] CHURCHILL
Sd Kfz 222
Pz Kw III
Pz Kw I
SHERMAN [/inserted]
[photograph]
[inserted]
Sd Kfz 222
SHERMAN
Pz Kw III [/inserted]
TYPES OF A.F.V.'s
Allied – Churchill.
Sherman.
Italian – Autoblinda 40 (armoured car).
[photograph]
[inserted] SHERMAN
AUTOBLINDA
Sd Kfz 222
Pz Kw III
Pz Kw III
CHURCHILL [/inserted]
German – Pz Kw I
Pz Kw II
Pz Kw III
Sd KFz 222*
*Four wheeled armoured car.
123
[page break]
PREPARATIONS FOR REPAIRING THE EDER DAM
[photograph]
Reconnaissance photographs taken two months after the attack (17.5.43) on the EDER DAM show that the reservoir is now completely dry and the water carried by the river is drained through Number Two Power House (A). Preparations are apparently being made to repair the dam and in these early stages a light railway (B) has been constructed and there is a new hutted camp (C), probably for workmen.
124
[page break]
[photograph]
This enlarged area from the same photograph seen on the preceding page shows further detail in the dam. It is now estimated that the breach is 96 feet deep, 245 feet across the crown and 123 feet along the base.
125
[page break]
DAYLIGHT ATTACK ON KIEL
[photograph]
KIEL was attacked by aircraft of U.S.B.C. on 25.7.43. Part of the attacking force concentrated on the Kriegsmarine Werft (above), where U-boats are built and repaired. Many bursts can be seen and direct hits were scored on the Power Station and also on the quays near the fitting-out basin. A smoke screen was in operation during the attack.
126
[page break]
U.S.B.C. ATTACK NORWAY IN DAYLIGHT
[photograph]
During daylight on 24.7.43 aircraft of U.S.B.C. attacked targets in Norway. The photograph below shows the attack on TRONDHEIM in progress. A large concentration of bombs can be seen in the Ladehammeren Basin area where the U-boat shelters are situated, and damage was caused to workshop, gasworks and the Lade Airfield. Left: Reconnaissance photographs taken later show the workshops severely damaged and still burning. A 'Narvik' class destroyer (arrow) appears to have been damaged at her stern, and several small vessels have also been damaged, one being down by the bow.
[photograph]
127
[page break]
IMPORTANT NORWEGIAN TARGET ATTACK
[photograph]
The important Magnesium, Aluminium and Nitrate works at HERØYA were also attacked during daylight on 24.7.43. Extremely accurate bombing resulted in a heavy concentration of bursts on the target. This area had recently been developed considerably and was one of the leading industrial centres of Norway.
128
[page break]
THE A/S NORDISK LETTMETAL WORKS AT HERØYA SEVERELY DAMAGED
[photograph]
This photograph, taken the day after the attack, shows severe damage to the works. Few buildings escaped damage altogether; among those hit were the Power Station (A), Gas Producer Plant (B), Washing and Carbonisation Building (C), Main Store of Finished Fertilisers (D), Forge (E), Chimney and Fan House (F) and Phosphate Crushing (G).
129
[page break]
HANOVER ATTACKED IN DAYLIGHT
[photograph]
During daylight on 26.7.43 ninety bomber aircraft of the U.S.B.C. penetrated as far as HANOVER to bomb important industrial targets, which include the largest rubber factory in Germany. The photograph above shows a great column of smoke caused by a violent explosion, in the vicinity of the CONTINENTAL GUMMIWERKE A.G. Vahrenwalderstrasse, where tyres, tubes and other rubber equipment are produced. See also next page.
130
[page break]
HANOVER RUBBER TYRE FACTORY DAMAGED
[photograph]
Right: An early stage during the attack showing the accurate concentration of bomb bursts on the Continental Gummiwerke (rubber factory) and the main goods yard.
Below: Severe damage has been caused to multi-storeyed buildings, boiler house and other smaller buildings of the rubber factory. The main building of the Guter Bahnof Nord goods yard has received several direct hits which have destroyed over 5,400 sq.yds. of the roof.
[photograph]
131
[page break]
REPEATED ATTACKS ON HAMBURG
[photograph]
Left: When bombers of U.S.B.C. attacked HAMBURG in daylight on 25.7.43 they found the city covered by a pall of smoke from hundreds of fires caused by the great R.A.F. raid on the previous night. The attacking Fortress aircraft can be seen flying in formation over the target with three enemy aircraft attempting to intercept (bottom right). Several bursts of flak can also be observed.
Below: Hamburg was again attacked in daylight the following day. Smoke from fires was still drifting over the city and port. Heavy damage to the city area is apparent through the haze, while an incomplete liner has capsized over on to the quay at Blohm & Voss. A concentration of bombs can be seen bursting on the Howaldts Shipyard and a second wave of bomb bursts is developing on and around the Neuhof Power House.
132 and 133
[page break]
[photograph]
This photograph shows the important SCHLESISCHE Station (D) with its surrounding yards and buildings, which is in E. Berlin; it is an important centre for forwarding supplies to the Eastern Front. The disused Ostbahn Station (A) has had the tracks removed and stores sheds have been erected (B), while foundations for further sheds are visible at (C). The Goods Yards are at (E and E1), with the Postal Dispatch Depot at (F), the Underground railway station building (G) is of a standardised design, while the Wriezener Station (H) is used for suburban traffic.
134
[page break]
[photograph]
INNSBRUCK. This important railway centre in Upper Austria is situated where the main route from Germany to Italy (via the Brenner Pass) crosses that following the Inn Valley to Switzerland. (A) Passenger Station, (B) Goods Station, (C) Locomotive Depot. The trucks seen at (D) are carrying M.T., while on the far side (E) flat trucks are carrying tanks and guns are being loaded at (F).
135
[page break]
AIRCRAFT OF THE ITALIAN AIR FORCE
[photograph]
Left: The Savoia-Marchetti S.M.84 is a modified version of the standard torpedo-bombers of the I.A.F. S.M.84s (A) with C.R.42s (B) and a French LeO 45 (C). The Fiat C.R. 42 is a biplane fighter, but many are still in service.
Below: The Re2001 (A), one of the best Italian fighters, has a German Daimler-Benz engine, while (B) is a B.R.20.
[photograph]
Right: S.M.84s (A) with Fiat B.R.20s. The B.R.20 (B) is an obsolescent twin-engined bomber.
[photograph]
136
[page break]
Right: The S.M.79 torpedo-bomber (A and B) has been one of the standard I.A.F. types throughout the war. Two Caproni Ca.313s (reconnaissance bombers) are also seen here (C and D). The obsolete high-wing monoplane (E) is a Ca.III, originally a bomber and now used for general purposes.
[photograph]
[photograph]
Below: S.M.84 torpedo-bombers.
[photograph]
Above: The S.M.82 is the most widely used Italian transport. S.M.82s are seen here at the Savoia-Marchetti factory at Vergiate/Somma Lombarda.
137
[page break]
[boxed] DUMMY FACTORY AT WILHELMSHAVEN [/boxed]
These photographs were taken during the daylight attack on WILHELMSHAVEN, 11.6.43, and show a dummy factory that has been built on reclaimed ground in an isolated part of the port. Note the chimneys (arrows) on two of the dummy buildings.
[photograph]
Above: At the beginning of the attack the smoke screen round the port has started though the decoy factory is not yet active.
Right: A little later the screen has increased and smoke can now be seen issuing from two dummy chimneys (arrows).
[photograph]
138
[page break]
[photograph]
While the attack on the port of WILHELMSHAVEN developed the decoy became fully active. Note that the smoke is darker than that of the screen generators, and less in volume. It is not designed to augment the screen.
139
[page break]
KNOW YOUR PORTS
[photograph]
[inserted]OUTER HARBOUR
OIL QUAY
NEW PORT
DESTROYER BASIN
PIZZOLI MOLE
S. ANTONIO MOLE
OLD PORT [/inserted]
BARI, a port on the Adriatic Sea in S.E. Italy, which in recent weeks has become one of the most important in the country. It deals mainly with merchant shipping, but naval escort vessels also berth in the port.
140
[page break]
A.N.I.C. REFINERY AND HYDROGENATION PLANT AT BARI, ITALY
[photograph]
This oil refinery at BARI was designed to deal with crude oil from Albania. It remained inactive for a long period, but has come into use since the heavy damage to the Leghorn Refinery. Distillation Columns (A), Cracking Plant (B), Boiler House (C), Hydrogenation Stalls (D), Tanks with floating roofs (E), Transformer Station (F).
141
[page break]
[photograph]
[photograph]
NAURU, one of the most important islands in the Gilbert Group, was a British mandate, but is now in Japanese hands. Its population is about 3,000 and phosphate digging is the main industry. The airfield was attacked by bombers of the American Air Force on 20.4.43; bomb bursts can be seen at the N.W. end of the runway. In the same raid considerable damage was done to the oil stores and phosphate plant.
142
[page break]
[boxed] FIGHTER COMMAND COMBAT FILM [/boxed]
[photograph]
[photograph]
[photograph]
During this attack hits from cannon shell and m.g. fire were scored on this Fw 56.
[photograph]
A Ju 52, with a mine detonating ring, flying over the sea.
143
[page break]
PROBLEM PICTURE
[photograph]
[photograph]
WHAT IS THIS?
Answer at Foot of This Page.
CORRECTION: Vol.4. No. 5 Page 115.
CHATEAULIN VIADUCT. The caption should read 49 meters high.
[boxed] ANSWER TO PROBLEM PICTURE ABOVE.
Esparto grass grown to prevent the sand from drifting. These photographs are of the same area west of HAAMSTEDE, on Schouwen Island, off the Dutch coast [/boxed]
144
[page break]
(4482) 51-9832, 2900, 9/8/43. 45.246.
C. & E. LAYTON LTD. London, E.C.4.
[page break]
EVIDENCE IN CAMERA
This weekly document will consist of a collection of illustrations varying in number in each issue according to the quantity of material of sufficient interest and suitable for reproduction that is received.
2. Requests for material to be included in this document should be submitted to Command Headquarters, who, after consideration, will submit them to Air Ministry, A.D.I. (Ph.). Any useful suggestions as regards contents will receive full consideration and will be welcomed.
3. Distribution is carried out by the Air Ministry (A.I. I) and any requests for fewer or additional copies must be made through Group Headquarters who will ensure the maximum possible economy.
4. Under no circumstances must any of the illustrations be reproduced by Units in the British Isles. Further copies can be printed from the existing blocks and independent photographic reproduction would be a waste of material and labour to the detriment of the National War Effort.
5. The distribution of photographs to the general public is carried out through the Press who are supplied with photographs which have been specially selected for their general interest and have been published after careful consideration by the Security Branch and by the Ministry of Information; it is therefore unnecessary as well as undesirable to communicate any of the contents of this document, either directly or by discussion in public places, to persons not enjoying the privilege of serving in H.M. Forces.
6. The document has not been officially graded as Secret or Confidential in order that the widest distribution may be given, but Commanding Officers should use their discretion to ensure that the appropriate information is available only to those whose work will benefit.
7. The necessity for security cannot be over emphasised, for although this document is not marked Secret some of its contents may occasionally be of value to the enemy. Every care must be taken to prevent such information being disclosed.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Evidence in Camera Vol 4 No 5
Description
An account of the resource
A magazine of aerial photographs covering aerial views of tanks, the Eder dam after the attack by 617 squadron, Kiel, Trondheim and Heroya harbours under attack, industrial areas in Hanover, railway centres, Italian airfields and aircraft, a dummy factory at Wilhelmshaven, Bari port and oil refinery, the island of Nauru, air to air combat images and an image to be guessed, featuring sand dune stabilisation.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1943-08-09
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One 28 page booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MMcDermottC1119618-161216-05
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
United States Army Air Force
Royal Air Force. Fighter Command
Aeronautica Nazionale Repubblicana
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Germany--Eder Dam
Germany--Kiel
Norway--Trondheim
Norway--Porsgrunn
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Berlin
Austria--Innsbruck
Italy--Somma Lombardo
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Italy--Bari
Nauru
Netherlands--Schouwen-Duiveland
Germany--Hannover
Italy
Germany
Austria
Netherlands
Norway
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Air Ministry
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Babs Nichols
aerial photograph
B-17
bombing
bombing of Hamburg (24-31 July 1943)
Eder Möhne and Sorpe operation (16–17 May 1943)
Ju 52
reconnaissance photograph
-
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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1525/27333/SNewtonJL742570v10011-0002.1.jpg
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824c26097e3e6725e54ed327ddaeb664
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Newton, Jack Lamport
J L Newton
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-07-15
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Newton, JL
Description
An account of the resource
83 items. Collection concerns Flight Lieutenant Jack Newton (742570 Royal Air Force) who was a Sergeant air gunner on Wellington of 12 Squadron. His aircraft was landed on fire at a German occupied airfield in Antwerp in August 1941. He was the first airman to escape back to England via the Comète escape line. The rest of his crew were captured and made prisoners of war. The collection contains accounts of his escape, letters of research from Belgium helper, other official correspondence from the Red Cross and the Royal Air Force, photographs of places and people, newspaper cuttings propaganda leaflets and maps of airfield and escape route. In addition there is an interview with Jack Newton about his experiences in the wartime RAF.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Jackie Bradford and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[ French Newspaper]
LE COURRIER DE L’AIR
[Four pages written in French with black and white photographs]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Le Courrier de l'air
Description
An account of the resource
Capitulation near Stalingrad of Field Marshall Von Paulus on 30 January 1943 and General Streicher on 2 February 1943. Defeated Sixth Army comprised 330,000 men. General Giraud, High Commissioner in North Africa, working closely with General De Gaulle, Great Britain and United States. Descriptions of progress in North Africa. Churchill meets President Inönü of Turkey, agreeing how Britain and United States could help provide material support.
René Massigli, French Ambassador, arrives in London and meets General De Gaulle and Anthony Eden. Admiral Doenitz replaces Admiral Raeder as Commander in Chief of Germany navy. Formerly Commander in Chief of the submarine fleet. Air operations on number of sites involved with submarines or their production (Copenhagen, Wilhelmshaven, Dusseldorf, Lorient and Hamburg). Huge cost to the Romanians of collaboration rather than resistance.
Goering’s speech in Berlin, marking Hitler’s 10th anniversary, delayed by over an hour due to Mosquito air strike. Russian advancement against armies south of Rostov and Donetz’s armies. RAF’s operations listed for January 1943.
Diary of merchant navy officer: 35 days spent with 14 of his men in lifeboat after torpedo attack. Defence of shipping routes by RAF and Royal Navy. American, British and French actions following Casablanca conference.
Delivered by the Royal Air Force
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1943-02-04
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Four page newspaper with b/w photographs
Language
A language of the resource
fra
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SNewtonJL742570v10011
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Wehrmacht. Kriegsmarine
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943-01
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
France
Germany
Russia (Federation)
North Africa
Romania
Denmark--Copenhagen
France--Lorient
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Russia (Federation)--Volgograd
Denmark
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Peter Bradbury
Sally Coulter
bombing
Goering, Hermann (1893-1946)
Hitler, Adolf (1889-1945)
Mosquito
propaganda
submarine
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1401/27311/LMooreD1603117v1.2.pdf
aa6d027a434eb2fbb7fb92daf45492da
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Moore, Dennis
D Moore
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-05-06
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Moore, D
Description
An account of the resource
37 items and two albums.
The collection concerns (1923 - 2010, 1603117, 153623 Royal Air Force) and contains his log books, documents, photographs and two albums. He flew operations as a navigator with 218 and 15 Squadrons.
Album one contains photographs of his family and his training in Canada.
Album Two contains photographs of his service in the Far East.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Terrence D Moore and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Dennis Moore's flying log book. One
Description
An account of the resource
Flying log book for D Moore, navigator, covering the period from 5 June 1943 to 13 June 1947. Detailing his flying training, operations flown, instructor duties and post war flying with 52 Squadron and civilian flying with Silver City Airlines. He was stationed at RCAF Rivers, RAF Wigtown, RAF Chipping Warden, RAF Edgehill (aka RAF Shenington), RAF Chedburgh, RAF Feltwell, RAF Methwold, RAF Mildenhall, RAF Crosby-on-Eden and RAF Dum-Dum. Aircraft flown in were Anson, Wellington, Stirling, Lancaster, Dakota, York, Sunderland and Lancastrian. He flew a total of 33 operations, 6 daylight, 4 night with 218 squadron and 14 daylight, 9 night with 15 squadron. His pilots on operations were Squadron Leader Macfarlane and Flight Lieutenant Percy. Targets were Boulogne, Neuss, Cap Gris Nez, Calais, Duisburg, Wilhelmshaven, Stuttgart, Essen, Westkapelle, Solingen, Schwammenual Dam, Merseburg, Kattegat, Cologne, Vohwinkler, Dortmund, Munich, Saarbrucken, Wanne Eickel, Hohenbudberg, Wesel, Gelsenkirchen, Bochult, Hallendorf, Kiel and Berlin.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LMooreD1603117v1,
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Canada
Germany
Great Britain
India
Netherlands
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Atlantic Ocean--Kattegat (Baltic Sea)
England--Cumbria
England--Norfolk
England--Northamptonshire
England--Oxfordshire
England--Suffolk
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Calais
France--Pas-de-Calais
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Borken (North Rhine-Westphalia)
Germany--Braunschweig Region
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Düren (Landkreis)
Germany--Essen
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Krefeld
Germany--Merseburg
Germany--Munich
Germany--Neuss
Germany--Saarbrücken
Germany--Solingen
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Wanne-Eickel
Germany--Wesel (North Rhine-Westphalia)
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
India--Dum Dum
Netherlands--Veere
Scotland--Dumfries and Galloway
Germany--Wuppertal
France
Manitoba
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
France--Cap Gris Nez
Manitoba--Rivers
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Mike Connock
Cara Walmsley
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1944-07-10
1944-07-11
1944-09-17
1944-09-23
1944-09-24
1944-09-26
1944-09-28
1944-10-14
1944-10-15
1944-10-19
1944-10-23
1944-10-29
1944-11-04
1944-11-28
1944-11-29
1944-12-05
1944-12-06
1944-12-07
1944-12-08
1944-12-14
1944-12-28
1945-01-01
1945-01-02
1945-01-03
1945-01-07
1945-01-08
1945-01-13
1945-01-16
1945-01-17
1945-01-28
1945-02-09
1945-02-19
1945-03-02
1945-03-04
1945-03-05
1945-03-11
1945-03-22
1945-03-23
1945-03-29
1945-04-09
1945-04-10
1945-04-14
1945-04-15
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
12 OTU
15 Squadron
1653 HCU
218 Squadron
52 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
aircrew
Anson
bombing
C-47
Heavy Conversion Unit
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
Lancastrian
navigator
Operational Training Unit
RAF Chedburgh
RAF Chipping Warden
RAF Feltwell
RAF Methwold
RAF Mildenhall
RAF Shenington
RAF Wigtown
Stirling
Sunderland
training
Wellington
York
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/194/27307/MAdamsHG424504-170215-12.2.pdf
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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/194/27307/MAdamsHG424504-170215-13.1.pdf
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Adams, Herbert
Herbert Adams
H Adams
Herbert G Adams
Description
An account of the resource
88 items. Collection concerns Herbert George Adams DFC, Legion d'Honour (b. 1924, 424509 Royal Australian Air Force). He flew operations as a navigator with 467 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, photographs of people and places, several memoirs about his training and bombing operations, letters to his family, his flying logbook and notes on navigation.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Herbert Adams and catalogued by Nigel Huckins and Trevor Hardcastle.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-02-15
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Adams, HG
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
BERT ADAMS
Rank Sergeant ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE
467 LANCASTER SQUADRON NAVIGATOR
OPERATIONS
Le Havre – 10/9/44.
Stuttgart – 12/9/44.
Boulogne – 17/9/44.
Bremerhaven – 17/9/44.
Munchen-Gladbach – 19/9/44.
Dortmund-Ems – 23/9/44.
Karlsuhe – 26/9/44.
Kaiserslautern – 27/9/44.
Wilhelmshaven – 5/10/44.
Bremen – 6/10/44.
Knolle Dyke – 7/10/44.
Nuremnurg [sic] – 19/10/44.
Walcheren Is. – 23/10/44.
Bergen – 28/10/44.
Flushing – 30/10/44.
Dusseldorf – 2/1144.
Ems-Weser Canal – 6/11/44.
Harbourg – 11/11/44.
Duren – 16/11/44.
Dortmund-Ems Canel [sic] – 21/11/44.
Trondheim – 22/11/44.
Urft Dam – 11/12/44.
Munich – 17/12/44.
Gdynia – 18/12/44.
Rheydt – 27/12/44.
Dortmund-Ems – 1/1/45.
Royan – 4/1/45.
Munich – 7/1/45.
Brux – 16/1/45.
[page break]
BERT ADAMS
R.A.A.F. 424504
467 LANCASTER SQUADRON WADDINGTON
NAVIGATOR
10.9.44 Le Havre (France) 3.55 hrs 11 x 1000, 4 x 500 [inserted] lb bombs [/inserted] Had a good trip, except [deleted] part [/deleted] [inserted] PORT OUTER MOTOR [/inserted] packed up over target
12.9.44 Stuttgart 6.50 hrs night 1 x 4000 + 13 “J” clusters Bombed 3 mins late, saw 4 fighters Junkers 88, and unident, lots of coksrews. [sic]
14.9.44 Wainfleet 1.10 hrs night abandoned – poor vis, had to get down to 500 ft to get home
17.9.44 Boulogne 3.25 hrs day. 11 x 1000, 4 x 500
18.9.44 Bremerhaven 4.45 hrs night 18 cans incends no fighters after us, not much flak
19.9.44 Munchen-Gladbach 5.05 hrs night 1 x 2000 + 12 “J” clusters good trip to target, had to orbit 3 times for [deleted]sn[/deleted] [inserted]m[/inserted]arking, [inserted] delay [/inserted], very nearly collided, cloud very low on return T on edge of Ruhr.
23.9.44 Dortmund-Ems Canal 5.25 night 14 x 1000 crook trip for Nav – no aids & winds wrong had to orbit T, get down 6300’ to bomb, come home off track over Rotterdam, lots of flak
26.9.44 Karlsruhe 6.50 hrs night 18 cans incends saw no fighters, not much A/A, had to bomb on glare of fires
[page break]
467 Lancaster Squadron ….. Operations
27.9.44 Kaiserlautern 6.20 hrs night 18 cans incends hit target very well, saw no fighters plenty of small flak, but no hits
5.10.44 Wilhelmshaven 5.05 hrs day 18 cans incends
10/10 cloud over T, bombed on inst, got left behind formation on on [sic] the way home.
6.10.44 Bremen 4.55 hrs night 18 cans incends fairly well defended target, attack very effective
7.10.44 Knolle Dyke 3.10 hrs day 14 x 1000, 2 sticks of 7 out in formation, two bombing runs. no flak hit us, but there was a fair bit
19.10.44 Nuremberg 8.10 hrs night 1 x 2000 + 12 “J” clusters extremely quiet trip, no shearch [sic] lights or fighters.
23.10.44 Flushing 3.20 hrs day 14 x 1000 weather frightfully bad, bombed from min ht. 4000’ just under cloud, flak pretty accurate, most kites holed, 3 lost. come home at zero feet.
28.10.44 Bergen (Norway) 7.30 hrs night 12 x 1000 hard nav trip, flak very severe, monotonous sea trip, diverted to Marston Moor
30.10.44 Walcheren Is (Holland) 3.20 hrs day 14 x 1000 good trip except around Target, cloud crook, had to do 8 cicuits [sic] negligible flak, good nav trip
[page break]
467 LANCASTER SQUADRON …… OPERATIONS
2.11.44 Dusseldorf 5.20 hrs night 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500 got off late, but made up, flak inaccurate, but fighters very active, full moon no cloud. saw 13 kites go down, but din’t [sic] see any fighters ourselves.
6.11.44 Ems-Weser Canal 5.25 hrs night 14 x 1000 set course 10 mins late, marker got [inserted] no [/inserted] joy, had to bring bombs home. fighters active, few went down, weather extremly [sic] rough on way home
11.11.44 Harburg 5.35 hrs night 1 x 4000, 6 x 1000, 6 x 500 tactics changed twice, mess up all together. Got off o.k. & had fair trip – Nearly collided on way out – nearest escape yet! Frank Eyres crew missing (same billet as us) Bods came in two hours late, kept us awake!!!
16.11.44 Duren 5.25 hrs day 12 x 1000 Very nice nav trip. Ran into predicted flak 3 or 4 miles part of the track on way out, very close collected a few holes, none serious to kite or crew. vis very crook on return
21.11.44 Dortmund-Ems Canal 6.10 hrs night 13 x 1000 Fair trip had to come down to 3800’ to bomb because of cloud + nice bombing
[page break]
467 LANCASTER SQUADRON …. OPERATIONS
22.11.44 Trondheim (Norway) 10.55 hrs night 9 x 1000 Bombs brought home – target obscured by smoke screen. Off track on way home, loked [sic] as not enough juice, but wind changed and we just made it.
11.12.44 Urft Dam 6.05 hrs day 14 x 1000 Sorry we had to fly strange kite (F), very poor climber, got to target late. Did two runs but couldn’t bomb – clouds. Feathered engine on way home. Could only do 140 jettsoned [sic] 2 to land, back over an hour late.
17.12.44 Munich 9.45 hrs night 1 x 4000, 9 cans, 1 munroe
18.12.44 Gdynia (Special target – pocket battleship (“LUTZOW”) 10 x 1000 S.A.P. 9.40 hrs night
27.12.44 Rheydt 5.00 hrs day 14 x 1000
1.1.45 Dortmund-Ems Canal 6.40 hrs day 11 x 1000, 4 x 500 diverted to Strubby
4.1.45 Royan (France) 6.30 hrs night 1 x 4000, 16 x 500
7.1.44 [sic] Munich 8.45 hrs night 1 x 4000, 6 clusters
16.1.44 [sic] Brux 10.00 hrs night 1 x 4000 12 x 5
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
List of Bert Adams operations
Description
An account of the resource
List of 29 operations as navigator on Lancaster of 467 Squadron between 10 September 1044 and 16 January 1945. Includes comments on each sortie with bomb load, flight times, fighters seen, weather, anti-aircraft fire, aircraft shot down.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Five page typewritten document
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Personal research
Text. Memoir
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MAdamsHG424504-170215-12, MAdamsHG424504-170215-13
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Australian Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Norway
Netherlands
France
Poland
Czech Republic
Germany
France--Le Havre
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
Germany--Bremerhaven
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Germany--Mönchengladbach
Germany--Karlsruhe
Germany--Kaiserslautern
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Bremen
Netherlands--Walcheren
Norway--Bergen
Netherlands--Vlissingen
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Mittelland Canal
Germany--Hamburg Region
Germany--Düren (Cologne)
Norway--Trondheim
Germany--Euskirchen Region
Germany--Munich
Poland--Gdynia
Germany--Rheydt
France--Royan
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Czech Republic--Most
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-09-10
1944-09-12
1944-09-17
1944-09-19
1944-09-23
1944-09-26
1944-09-27
1944-10-05
1944-10-06
1944-10-07
1944-10-19
1944-10-23
1944-10-28
1944-10-30
1944-11-02
1944-11-06
1944-11-11
1944-11-16
1944-11-21
1944-11-22
1944-12-11
1944-12-17
1944-12-18
1944-12-27
1945-01-01
1945-01-04
1945-01-07
1945-01-16
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
H G Adams
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
467 Squadron
aircrew
bombing
incendiary device
Ju 88
navigator
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/194/27300/LAdamsHG424504v1.1.pdf
7cfa3247f6218dfe621eadcd2e692793
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Adams, Herbert
Herbert Adams
H Adams
Herbert G Adams
Description
An account of the resource
88 items. Collection concerns Herbert George Adams DFC, Legion d'Honour (b. 1924, 424509 Royal Australian Air Force). He flew operations as a navigator with 467 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, photographs of people and places, several memoirs about his training and bombing operations, letters to his family, his flying logbook and notes on navigation.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Herbert Adams and catalogued by Nigel Huckins and Trevor Hardcastle.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-02-15
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Adams, HG
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
H G Adams’ Royal Australian Air Force observer’s air gunner’s and W/T operator’s flying log book
Description
An account of the resource
Royal Australian Air Force observer’s air gunner’s and W/T operator’s flying log book for H G Adams, navigator, covering the period from 11 May 1943 to 23 August 1945. Detailing his flying training, operations flown and instructor duties. He was stationed at RAAF Cootamundra, RAAF Evans Head, RAAF Parkes, RAF Llandwrog, RAF Lichfield, RAF Swinderby, RAF Syerston, RAF Waddington and RAF Wigsley. Aircraft flown in were, Anson, Battle, Wellington, Stirling and Lancaster. He flew a total of 29 operations with 467 squadron, 10 daylight and 19night operations. Targets were, Le Havre, Stuttgart, Boulogne, Bremerhaven, Monchen Gladbach, Dortmund-Ems Canal, Karlsruhe, Kaiserlautern, Wilhelmshaven, Bremen, Flushing, Bergen, Walcheren, Dusseldorf, Ems-Weser Canal, Harburg, Duren, Trondheim, Urft Dam, Munich, Gdynia, Rheydt, Royan and Brux. His pilot on operations was Flying officer G-Buchanan.
This item was sent to the IBCC Digital Archive already in digital form. No better quality copies are available.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LAdamsHG424504v1
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Australian Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Australia
Czech Republic
Germany
Great Britain
Netherlands
Poland
England--Lincolnshire
England--Nottinghamshire
England--Staffordshire
France
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Le Havre
France--Royan
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Bremerhaven
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Germany--Düren (Cologne)
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Euskirchen Region
Germany--Kaiserslautern
Germany--Mittelland Canal
Germany--Mönchengladbach
Germany--Munich
Germany--Rheydt
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Netherlands--Vlissingen
Netherlands--Walcheren
New South Wales--Cootamundra
New South Wales--Evans Head
New South Wales--Parkes
Norway--Bergen
Norway--Trondheim
Poland--Gdynia
Norway
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Urft Dam
New South Wales
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Czech Republic--Most
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943
1944-09-10
1944-09-12
1944-09-13
1944-09-17
1944-09-18
1944-09-19
1944-09-20
1944-09-23
1944-09-24
1944-09-26
1944-09-27
1944-09-28
1944-10-08
1944-10-16
1944-10-17
1944-10-19
1944-10-20
1944-10-23
1944-10-28
1944-10-29
1944-10-30
1944-11-02
1944-11-06
1944-11-11
1944-11-16
1944-11-21
1944-11-22
1944-11-23
1944-12-11
1944-12-17
1944-12-18
1944-12-19
1944-12-27
1945-01-01
1945-01-04
1945-01-07
1945-01-08
1945-01-16
1945-01-17
1945-06-19
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
1654 HCU
1660 HCU
27 OTU
467 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
air gunner
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
Battle
bomb aimer
Bombing and Gunnery School
Heavy Conversion Unit
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
navigator
Operational Training Unit
RAF Lichfield
RAF Llandwrog
RAF Swinderby
RAF Syerston
RAF Waddington
RAF Wigsley
Stirling
training
Wellington
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1401/27272/BMooreDMooreDv1.1.pdf
6f33157a0b1575c878747146f837b62b
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Moore, Dennis
D Moore
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-05-06
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Moore, D
Description
An account of the resource
37 items and two albums.
The collection concerns (1923 - 2010, 1603117, 153623 Royal Air Force) and contains his log books, documents, photographs and two albums. He flew operations as a navigator with 218 and 15 Squadrons.
Album one contains photographs of his family and his training in Canada.
Album Two contains photographs of his service in the Far East.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Terrence D Moore and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
Dennis Moore
28.06.1923 – 30.10.2010
[photograph]
Autobiographical notes
DM Memoirs (Second Edition)
Compiled and edited by Terry D Moore
[censored lines]
1
[page break]
2
[page break]
Foreward
In late 1991, following the end of the Cold War and the cessation of hostilities in Iraq. the Government's "Options for Change" defence review led to the disbandment of several RAF squadrons, one of which was XV Squadron which had played a significant role in the first Gulf War. As a former member of this squadron, in which he flew as a Lancaster Navigator during the Second World War, my father was invited to attend the disbandment ceremony in Laarbruch, Germany, and I had the privilege of accompanying him as his guest.
Although he continued to serve in the RAF until 1964, Dad had never talked about his wartime experiences but, during the long car journey to and from Germany, all that changed – the memories flooded back as though it were yesterday. The stories became very familiar to me as they were regularly recounted at the many air-shows and Squadron Reunions we attended over almost two decades
Sadly, he did not live to celebrate his birthday on 28th June 2012, the day on which Queen Elizabeth II unveiled the long overdue Bomber Command Memorial in London's Green Park. However, my wife Penny and I proudly attended as his representatives
[photograph]
The ceremony, honouring the 55,730 airmen who lost their lives during the Second World War, was attended by more than 5,000 second world war veterans and it brought to mind the last words of the Antarctic explorer, Captain R.F. Scott: "had we survived I would have had a take to tell . . . . . . ." Well he did survive – a thirty-three sortie tour with Bomber Command, and his tales are told in the form of these "Autobiographical Notes" which he compiled following our trip to Germany in 1991.
I spent many hours editing his notes, which I illustrated with photographs from his albums and, thankfully, was able to get his seal of approval before he died. Since then I have added more photos and later material which I found in his papers. I am certain that he would have approved.
[photograph]
Terry Moore, July 2012
3
[page break]
[photograph]
"60 years on" – with PA474 at RAF Lossiemouth, May 2005
[photograph]
Pam and me at XV Squadron "90th Birthday" reunion, Lossiemouth
4
[page break]
Dennis Moore
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
1923 – 1939
I was born at 98 Camden Crescent, Chadwell Heath, Essex on 28th June 1923. The youngest child of Thomas and Mary Moore 1, brother to Thomas (Owen) 2 and sister Joyce 3.
About 1926/7 the family moved to 150 Croydon Road, Beddington, Surrey.
My education began at Bandon Hill School, Wallington.
At the age of 7 I fell ill with infantile paralysis (Polio). I was taken to St. Thomas's Hospital in London where I spent nearly 3 months. I was immobilised in a body splint but do not remember much about the treatment except having pins stuck in the soles of my feet periodically (mostly in middle of night!). Apparently I was very lucky to have been diagnosed so quickly and affected in whole body rather than in particular limbs. I only remember there being some form of epidemic in the ward and visitors were not allowed for three weeks or so. The doctor promised me 5 shillings (a lot of money for an eight year old in those days) if I could walk unaided from the end of my bed to the end of the bed opposite by the time my parents were allowed back in. He had to pay up! All together I was off school for nearly a year. I started back in a wheel chair but soon discarded it!
In 1934 I got a place at Wallington County School for Boys. I was not very good at school but just about managed to keep up, though mostly somewhere near the bottom of the form! I only once ever obtained good results in exams when I managed to come [italics] first [/italics] in a science exam, and that was only because, by chance, I had swotted up the night before on all the right things!
I joined the school Scouts (9th Wallington {County School} Troop) and did quite well. Our Scout Master, A. D. Prince, was the school science master. I became Patrol Leader of the 'Owls' and eventually obtained the King's Scout badge and the 'Bushman's Thong'. Nearly every holiday was spent camping or 'Trekking'. In 1937 I attended the Scout Jamboree at Zandfoort in Holland (pictures in green photo album). None of us liked the very militant contingent from Germany who threw their weight about at all the 'get-togethers'.
[photograph]
Joyce, Dad, Mum and me
I represented the Scouts at swimming and the school 2nd XV at Rugby. All my spare time was taken up with tennis at Beddington House Lawn Tennis Club, playing and helping to maintain the tennis courts.
My swimming ability arose from the Polio recovery therapy. Long daily sessions were spent in the hospital pool and then in the local swimming baths in Croydon.
Our house was quite close to Croydon Airport and two of my friends lived actually overlooking the airfield. We could recognise all of the airlines and aircraft that we saw landing and taking off each day. This aroused my life long interest in flying.
1 Thomas Henry Moore (1892-1967), Mary (née Tait) (1893-1984)
2 Thomas Owen (b. 3 October 1917, d. 2 November 2010)
3 Joyce (b. 11 July 1919, d. 16 May 2012)
5
[page break]
1939
Mid-June – our summer holiday at The Hartland Hotel, Hartland Point, Devon was delayed so that I could take the last exam of Matriculation (Economics) but I did so badly that we need not have wasted the extra day. I left school at the beginning of July, aged 16
War started on 3rd September and we listened to the radio broadcast by Neville Chamberlain, which was immediately followed by the Air Raid warning and all of us really though that we were about to be annihilated.
I started work at 'CUACO' (Commercial Union Assurance (Marine Department)) in Lime Street, London. Starting Pay was 21 shillings & sixpence (£1.12 1/2) per week and a railway season ticket cost 13 shillings (60p) per month. My boss was called Godin. I spent most of the time making onionskin copies of documents – before the days of photocopiers! The Underwriters were almost like gods and had to be treated as such. The firm had a lunch club in Ropemaker Street (near Moorgate Tube Station). It was a very old and decrepit building and we had one of the top floors, which could only be reached by very rickety stairs. It was well worth the 10-15 minute walk to get there, through the many alleyways and quick-cuts through other buildings, as the meal was free!!! Later, this building was destroyed by bombing and the Barbican now stands on the site.
I joined the AFS (Auxiliary Fire Service) as a Messenger.
1940
Joined the CUACO Tennis club. Played on the sports ground in the Sidcup area. In late summer I witnessed the bombings in the surrounding area.
The evacuation of Allied Forces from Dunkirk, following the German advance through Belgium, Holland and France, took place at the end of May and was completed around 3rd June. I had holiday from work a few days later and went on a cycle tour of Devon. I caught the train to Exeter, then cycled & stayed at YHA's from there. I passed many camps of army people who had just got back. They were not allowed to send mail without it being censored, so I acted as 'Mail Boy' for many of them who called me over from inside the fence. One of the hostels I stayed at was at Waters Meet (now a National Trust site) and the Warden and I were the only two people there. He took me into Lynton (or perhaps Lynmouth) and introduced me to real cider. It did not take much of this to wake up next morning with a very thick head! However, a long hike up the river soon altered that. At Salcombe, I managed to hire a motor boat (dinghy) and could not understand why the chap who hired it to me insisted that there was a full tank of petrol. I now imagine he must have thought that I was going into the Channel to pick up more 'Dunkirk Survivors' – I must have been very naive at the time!!
The 'Battle of Britain' started in earnest about 12th August. I had been playing tennis at Sidcup when the first bombing of airfields started. On the 15th (or possibly the 18th), I was in the garden at 150 Croydon Road Beddington when aircraft flew over with bombs dropping from them aimed towards Croydon aerodrome. The following day I was called to the Bourjois factory with the AFS to try and get underneath some girders to see if anyone was trapped. A few days later, Dad took us all to live with the Robsons in Charlton Cottage, Copperkins Lane, Amersham, which they rented for a short while. I joined the local Scout Troop (1st Chesham Bois) and met the King family. After short time, by general consent, I was made Troop Leader.
I travelled up to London daily by train with George King & his brother. On one occasion, after a very heavy night raid, it took two hours to walk from Paddington to Lime Street through the devastated city. I camped out at weekends at Chalfont Heights and Great Hampden.
The Blitz was at its height during this period and London and the surrounding area were seemingly bombed every night.
6
[page break]
1941
Early in year the folks moved back to Beddington but I stayed on and lived with one of the King family at 'Rose Cottage' in Chesham Bois. I visited Len Reynolds (see Gunboat 658) who worked for Sun Insurance and had been evacuated to Wrest Park, Silsoe, Beds. I cycled from Amersham via Luton and was chased by a dog for a long way up the A6. Recent visits to Wrest Park are somewhat nostalgic.
24th April 1941, on leaving Chesham Bois, I was presented with a Photo Album by George King and members of 1st Chesham Bois Scout Troop.
[photograph]
Len Reynolds and myself in uniform
Changed jobs soon after a devasting German bombing raid on London on 10th May and started with Gold Exploration & Finance Company of Australia, which had been evacuated to Sandroyd School, Oxshott. The first few days were spent in the old office in Basinghall Street helping to move files and papers from the partially bombed building. During the week I lived at Sandroyd (in a small house called Kittermasters) and cycled home to Beddington at weekends. By the end of the summer the Blitz had more or less finished but a German bomber (or parts of it!) crashed in the grounds of Sandroyd one evening while we were out drinking in a local pub!
Volunteered for RAF and attended the selection centre at Oxford University (not sure which college – visits in recent years in no way help me to recognise anything about it). Had a long session with medics to decide if my previous infantile paralysis (Polio) would allow me to be considered for Aircrew. After an interview with four Senior Officers, it was decided that I had passed 'A1' and was 'sworn-in' for deferred service. My actual service in the RAF counted from then. Mum was very upset when I informed her as she was convinced that I would be unfit for any service in the Forces due to my previous medical history and Dad was upset that I had volunteered for the [underlined] RAF [/underlined] because he had already booked me as a nautical apprentice with a post on the Prince Line vessel "Black Prince". I had actually done myself a great favour as the ship was sunk quite early on with the loss of all the crew!
Took part in amateur dramatics at Sandroyd together with others from English, Scottish & Australian Bank (ES&A). Performed in Xmas panto as a character in sketches of the Weston Brothers type. They were very popular Radio characters of the time.
7
[page break]
1942
Early spring, I was called up as U/T Aircrew and reported to Aircrew Receiving Centre (ACRC) at Lords cricket ground and billeted in "Viceroy Court" (one of numerous apartment blocks in Regents Park area). During the first week or so we were kitted out, received inoculations, vaccinations, took night vision tests and attended numerous lectures in various part of the cricket ground. Many of the staff were well known cricketers of the day. Spent about eight or nine weeks here with some odd short periods of leave (weekend passes) so I was able to get home quite easily.
[photograph]
At home in the garden 150 Croydon Rd, Beddington
Posted to RAF Bridgenorth & RAF Ludlow where I helped to build the camps. We lived in tents and were treated like 'dirt'. Most of the time was devoted to learning how to 'skive-off' each evening and get back into camp without being caught! Ludlow was famous for the large number of pubs and we took advantage of this to avoid being seen by the SPs (RAF Police). Fortunately, both postings were quite short lived.
Summer was spent at Initial Training Wing (ITW) Newquay. Billeted in the "Penolver Hotel" on the seafront. I seem to remember it being next door to the "Beresford" (pictures in album). Our Sergeant, called Sgt. Hannah, was very strict but fair and we got on well with him. In the photos I recall many of the faces but I cannot put names to any of them. A certain teaspoon, still in use, came from a little cafe where we had our brief coffee breaks! A glorious summer – spent much time on the beach and in the sea, as well as clay pigeon shooting on the cliffs.
Since I had elected not go to pilot basic training selection but [italics] to train as a navigator [/italics], I remained at Newquay with 2 others while the rest of the course did their 'Tiger Moth' time. We met up again at Heaton Park, Manchester after they had finished their pilot checkouts. Had a miserable time hanging about waiting for next posting. Billeted in a filthy boarding house with a scruffy landlady and every one of the NCOs seemed to make life difficult.
8
[page break]
1943
Early in the year I finally got a posting to Empire Air Training in Canada. We entrained to Greenock (Glasgow) and boarded the Troop ship [italics] Empress of Scotland [/italics].
[photograph]
RMS Empress of Scotland (formerly Empress of Japan)
Hundreds of us were bundled together in tiers of bunks in makeshift accommodation on the port side, fairly well forward on the boat deck. It was a blessing being able to get out into the open quickly as some of the others were down below, almost in the bilges. We spent hours queuing for food but it passed the time quickly. We sailed on our own and had numerous alerts but nothing was seen or heard. Eventually we docked in New York, although we all thought we were going to [underlined] [italics] Halifax! [/italics] [/underlined]
By train up to No. 31 Personnel Depot Moncton (New Brunswick), stopping for nearly a day in sidings in Portland (Maine). People were very hospitable and made us meals and food for the rest of the journey.
It was freezing cold in Moncton but the huts were very warm and I remember barrels of apples at the end of each hut, which were always kept topped up with crisp, juicy, sweet red apples. Although well below zero outside, we never seemed to feel the cold. Time-off was spent in the town of Moncton, mostly in Macdonald's(?) drug store, eating very cheap T-bone steaks and drinking pints of milk. No shortage of food made it a regular paradise after rationing. We also spent hours ten-pin bowling, both in Moncton and in the alley back at camp.
I cannot remember what we did on duty, but do remember coming into contact with a Welsh corporal by the name of Gee who was the most obnoxious individual I have ever come across and who made our life a misery. It was a relief to join the epidemic of Scarlet Fever that swept through the camp. I was quite ill but lucky to find that one of the doctors was the husband of one of the girls that I had worked with at Sandroyd. He helped me when I was fit enough for convalescent leave by suggesting that I didn't go on my own to Montreal but to stay with one of the local families who took in Service people and looked after them. He introduced me to a couple called Tait who lived in Shediac, a place some 50 miles away, near or at the coast. They seemed to like me and 2 days later arrived back to take me home with them. They already had a number of Australian 'Tour Ex' aircrew staying with them, a couple of whom were in a very bad state and were being sent home by way of Canada and America.
[photograph]
The Tait residence was a huge detached property and they had a lovely red setter dog called Terry who took an immediate fancy to me for some reason and was my constant companion for the rest of my stay with them.
The Taits cosseted me right from the start and were most intrigued to find that Mum's maiden name was the same as theirs. They were most concerned when they saw my patched pyjamas and other clothes and really didn't understand when I told them about
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clothes rationing and all the other shortages. They immediately took me shopping to buy a whole set of new clothes and underclothes. Early in my stay they asked if I had ever had oysters and when I said no they immediately took me to a place called Pointe du Cheyne(?), which was 75 miles away up the coast, for an evening meal out. The place specialised in fried oysters and I had a whole plateful of them. They were marvellous and the taste still lingers on even though I have never had them again since. They seemed to think nothing of a 75-mile drive each way just for a meal out. I was introduced to all the inhabitants of Shediac – or so it seemed – and during my stay with them took me all over New Brunswick, visiting all the towns and villages and spent a day in Fredrickton visiting various relatives at the University.
It was a terrible break to have to leave them and get back to real life. One thing however was somewhat sobering and that was the discussions I had with the Australians before they left. I learnt from them what it was really going to be like to go on Bomber operations once training was finished.
Almost as soon as I reported back to camp in Moncton I was posted to No 1 Central Navigation School – Rivers Manitoba. The trip was a 3-day ride on the train and that in itself was a fascinating experience. Eventually I arrived at the town of Brandon after a short stop off in Winnipeg.
No. 76A Navigation Course began almost as soon as I had arrived and lasted from 17th May 1943 to 1st October 1943. After nearly a month of groundwork, I had my first flight in an aeroplane on 5th June 1943. I spent 3 hours 10 minutes in Anson 6882 flown by P/O Davey. [underlined] [italics] I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. [/italics] [/underlined]
[photograph]
76A Navigation Course 17th May – 1st October 1943,
No. 1 Central Navigation School, Rivers Manitoba, Canada
The others on the course were an amazingly good bunch and a number of us used to work and play together in almost perfect harmony. Only three pupils were 'scrubbed', for various reasons, during the course and the list of those completing the course is in my green photo album. Seven of us formed a small group.
Paul Bailey
Ken Waine
Joe Meadows
Doug Holt
Rick Richardson
Don Finlayson
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We were given regular 48-hour passes and the 75 miles on the train to Winnipeg was quite an easy journey. At Eatons, the major department store, we were able to arrange to stay with local people. Nearly all my visits were to a family living in Assiniboine Drive but quite early on Don Finlayson discovered that he had a relation in Winnipeg that he had never heard of before and we spent most of the time at his place, only going back to the others to sleep. I do not remember the name of the people I used to stay with, although I have a vague recollection that their name might be Oliver.
Finlayson's relatives had a youngish daughter and before long all seven of us paired up with other girls. As can be seen from the photo album we enjoyed many happy hours in the Cave Supper Club and danced to the music of Marsh Phimister (Marsh was still around in 1979 when we returned to Winnipeg to visit my cousin Tom Moore4 & his wife Marg!).
THE CAVE SUPPER CLUB
[photograph]
Date SEP 15 1948 No. 9 GIBSON
On one 48-hour pass I travelled to Toronto (or Montreal, I can't remember which) to meet my cousin Tom, whom I had never met before, but still managed to find him amongst the crowds on the Mainline Station. He took me to Hamilton Ontario were [sic] he was billeted. I think we also went to London Ontario but am not certain. He looked after me quite well and we seemed to get on well together, although it was a very short visit before I had to get back to camp.
Although I had never done very well at school, I suddenly discovered that I was just as clever (if not more so) as the others and I began to do well on the course. In the end I managed to finish 2nd on the course and along with 6 others was given an immediate commission as a Pilot Officer whilst all the others were promoted to Sergeant.
About the 5th October I returned to Moncton and almost straight away entrained to Halifax and boarded the Aquatania (or was it the Mauretania?). We sailed without a convoy again but had air cover at both ends with only a small gap in the middle. It was a smooth crossing, in much superior accommodation to that on the journey out. I met a Canadian who, it subsequently turned out, used to work opposite Tom Moore at Ogilvy Mills in Medicine Hat. – Small world!
We landed back at Greenock and I was posted to Harrogate for Officer kitting-out and indoctrination. I stayed at the Queen's Hotel in some luxury and, as there were lots of Civil Servants evacuated to Harrogate, the social life was extremely good. Went to numerous dances and parties including Christmas and New Year.
4Tom Moore (1916-1992) Margaret (nee Rutherford) (1914-1999)
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1944
Posted to No. 1 (O) A.F.U. (Advanced Flying Unit) Wigton, Scotland on or about 10th January and started No. 193 Air Navigators AFU Course.
Towards the end of January I 'went sick' with an undulant fever. Local Medical Officer did not believe me until I got rapidly worse and eventually was transferred to Hospital near Stranraer where Glandular fever was diagnosed. Whilst there, a survivor from a crashed Anson was brought in and all the 'stops' were pulled out to help him survive. Although nearly every bone in his body was broken he gradually rallied and started to make a miraculous recovery. Having recovered from Glandular Fever, I was diagnosed to have a mild leukaemia and started getting massive injections of iron and ate liver until it almost came out of my ears. Walked for miles in the surrounding countryside with some of the other patients and after a while felt fitter than I had for a long time.
I rejoined No. 226 Course on 7th April and finally finished there on 2nd May. I was posted to No. 12 O.T.U. (Operational Training Unit) at a place called Chipping Warden near Banbury. I arrived at Banbury railway station on my own and started enquiring about transport to the RAF Station. I met a Squadron Leader Pilot who informed me that he had already arranged for transport, which would be along in 'about an hour'. We sat and talked and I learned that he was called Nigel Macfarlane (Mac), a Rhodesian, who had already done a 'tour' in Hampdens. He told me that we were both two days late for the start of the course, although through no fault of our own. He seemed to be quite interested in me and my background.
When we arrived on the course, we discovered that most of the others had already had time to choose their own crews and Mac immediately asked me to be his navigator. Together we then looked around for the rest of the crew.
Eventually we got ourselves sorted out and finished up with
Pilot – Squadron Leader Nigel G. Macfarlane
Navigator – Pilot Officer Dennis Moore
Bomb Aimer – Pilot Officer Fred H. Shepherd
Wireless Operator – Sergeant 'Napper' Dennis Evans
Mid Upper Gunner – Sergeant Jimmy Bourke
Rear Gunner – Sergeant 'Nobby' Clarke (655)
The Flight Engineer, Sergeant 'Johnnie' Forster (later to become Pilot Officer), joined us later – after we had left Chipping Warden.
Fred Shepherd wore an 'N' brevet as he had completed a Navigation Course but for some reason had been re-mustered to Bomb Aimer at the end of his course?
The OCU aircraft identification was 'FQ'. All the flying was done in Wellingtons and it is worth noting that one of these – Z1735 – 'S', actually set a record of longevity by operating at this unit from early 1942 until January 1945. We only flew in this aircraft once. During the course both Fred & I were made Flying Officers and the Sergeants promoted to Flight/Sergeant.
We were on an exercise on the night of 5/6th June (D-day), and at the time could not understand why there were so many other aircraft in the sky!
On the 10th July we completed our first Operational flight on what was called a 'Nickel'. We dropped leaflets over Angers in France. The trip was successful and no difficulties other than 'Flak' were encountered.
Much of our flying here was from the 'satellite' airfield of Edgehill which was some distance away and actually on the site of the old battlefield.
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We finished our training about the 15th July, by which time we all seemed to work well together and all the instructors rated Mac very highly.
Posted to No. 1653 HCU (Heavy Conversion Unit) Chedburgh, Suffolk, on or about 28th July after leave. Flying on Stirlings commenced on the 14th August, firstly on 'A' Flight doing mostly circuits and bumps by day & night and then on 'C' & 'D' Flight doing Cross Country, followed by high level bombing practice. During the course we had 2 undercarriage collapses but otherwise the Stirling was quite a pleasant aircraft to fly in.
We did a fair bit of interchange of jobs except that our flight engineer, Johnny Forster had now joined us and he got the major share of actually flying it. I had a short lesson and also a session in the rear turret. It was here that I discovered that I did not feel at all happy looking down. I actually dropped a stick of practice bombs and did very well. On the ground we also did exercises at each other's job and on the gunnery range my '4 sec' burst disintegrated the moving target!
Whilst doing each other's jobs we found out that Mac (the pilot) had attended the Specialist Navigators Course just when the war started (he had come over from Rhodesia and joined the Air Force in 1938). This made three of us who were so-called navigators and it could have presented a problem, particularly as Fred Shepherd rather fancied himself in that role. However, on one trip, Fred started to try and give changes of aircraft heading to Mac from 'pinpoints' that he had observed on the ground without letting me know. Mac had no hesitation in telling the whole crew that, although there were two others who 'at a pinch' could possibly take over, there was only one navigator in the aircraft whilst he was Captain and that was me!! – and he had every faith in my ability to look after all of us as far as the navigation was concerned. This certainly boosted my ego and from then on we all got on famously.
The course was completed on the 4th September and we were quickly posted to No. 3 LFS (Lancaster Finishing School) at Feltwell where we arrived on 7th. Feltwell was a grass airfield with no runways but, nevertheless, we finished our conversion in 4 days and then rushed to No. 218 Squadron at Methwold so that Mac could take over the job of c/o 'A' Flight. We discovered that a few nights previously the Squadron had lost 5 aircraft, one of the crews being the Flight Commander. This was somewhat of a shattering experience to start off with but fortunately our first operation was a relatively easy one, bombing by daylight 'V1' bomb sites at Boulogne. 'Flak' (Anti-Aircraft shells) was quite heavy but there was no fighter activity.
During the rest of September we did two more daylight trips and 1 night trip to Neuss near Dusseldorf. During the early days of Oct. we converted to a form of specialised bombing called 'G.H' – an extension of OBOE. This used a tracking beam and a crossing beam for the release point. On this system the bomb aimer only had to set up the bomb release and I did the actual bombing run and release. The exercises we did proved to be extremely accurate and we regularly dropped practise bombs to within 50 yards from 20,000 feet.
Methwold was built just before the war but had no permanent brick buildings and accommodation was in Nissen huts dispersed in the woods, some over a mile from the Mess, which could only be reached over muddy footpaths. It started to get quite cold in these huts quite early on and scrounging for fuel for the stoves became a major pastime. Barbara Sharp, who used to live five doors from us in Beddington, turned up at Methwold but she did not stay for long. The film 'Journey together' was shot at Methwold and David Tomlinson the actor (of 'Bedknobs & Broomsticks' with Julie Andrews) was on one of the Squadrons. The author – Miles Tripp was a bomb-aimer on the Squadron and his book "The Eighth Passenger" tells of his crew and what happened to them both during and after the war. He talks of one trip taking off at a certain time when we actually took off 1 minute before him on the same operation. My experience and his seemed to differ completely on this particular occasion (see copy of his book obtained 20/01/1994!!).
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During October we completed 2 daylights and 3 night ops and after 1 trip (at night) in November Mac was posted to Mildenhall as Commanding Officer No. 15 (XV) Squadron and promoted to Wing Commander. The next day he sent an aircraft over to fetch us and we then joined the Squadron officially. As the C/O's crew we did less trips than anyone else and as Mac decided to act as a check pilot for the first trip with all new crews, we were asked to fly with one of the Flight Commanders called Flight Lieutenant Pat Percy (known to us as 'Tojo'). This was not a popular move as he was not of the same calibre as Mac but for special trips Mac flew with us and the difference was noticeable by everyone. Tojo was promoted to Squadron Leader in mid-December and we finished the month carrying out 3 daylight and 3 night trips. One of these was as 'Master Bomber' on the Schwammenauel Dam with Mac.
[photograph]
Mildenhall, December 1944
XV Squadron crew, with Lancaster "C" Charlie, ME844
[photograph] [photograph]
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1945
New Year's day opened the month with a 6 hour 5 minute night trip and during the rest of the month a further two night ops and three day trips were completed. On the 14th, returning from Saarbrucken, the East Anglian weather deteriorated so much that all aircraft had to be diverted. We finished up at Predannack in Cornwall and it was an absolute shambles. It is amazing that there were not any collisions as aircraft with very little fuel left tried to get into unknown airfields.
Most of our spare time when 'ops' were not in the offing we used to spend at the Bull at Barton Mills. Mac had his wife Margaret (from Nottingham) and his baby son Ian living there and the whole crew went to keep her company, particularly when Mac himself was not able to be there (see note at end of 1945). He often went with 'Sprog' crews on their first operation, to try and make sure that they were capable of operating on their own. We made many friends from No. 90 Squadron based at Tuddenham, which was also nearby and particularly with a Squadron Leader Pete Dunham and his crew who we subsequently saw blowing up on a daylight operation (see scrapbooks)
Only 2 trips in February (1 day – 1 night) both with Mac, and during this time Johnnie Forster was commissioned and Fred & I took him to London to get kitted out.
About this time I first met Pam. She was going out with Fred and visited him at Mildenhall. For some reason or other we were walking back to camp from the village as a group and Fred chose to go off with somebody else and Pam walked back with me.
Also around about this time I had bought a car and 'passed my test' by driving on leave with 4 passengers down through the centre of London. BAU 62 was a blue Ford saloon named 'EROS' which I bought for £30 at an auction of the effects of a deceased pilot.
Sometime during the month, my sister Joyce came up to visit. She stayed at a small pub quite near the main camp. I have always thought that it was called the George but visits in recent years have failed to find a pub with this name. [italics] (27/05/2014 – Fred Shepherd confirmed that it was "The Bird in Hand" which is just outside the old main gate – Ed) [/italics]
7 Daylight ops during March and mostly with a Canadian bomb-aimer called Tom Butler who stood in for Fred who was deputising for the Bombing Leader. On most of these we led either the Squadron, the Base (No. 32) or the whole Group. A Base was a small group of RAF airfields & 3 Group comprised all the Heavy Bomber Squadrons in East Anglia. All these 'daylights' were flown in quite tight formation – depending on the opposition! To boost moral back at the Squadron, our return over the airfield was always in as tight a formation as possible. On 23rd March we bombed a very precise area on the German side of the Rhine at Wesel (we were the lead aircraft), in preparation for our troops crossing. From all the aircraft bombing, 80 despatched and 77 actually bombed, only one bomb fell outside the perimeter (not us!) and that was as a result of a 'hang up' and not the fault of the crew. In Dudley Saward's authorised biography of "Bomber" Harris, this attack was listed as – 'perhaps the best example of direct support of the Army were the attacks on troop concentrations in Wesel on 23rd March by seventy seven heavies dropping 435.5 tons of bombs immediately prior to the Army launching its crossing of the Rhine and capturing Wesel'. Montgomery wrote to Harris – "My grateful appreciation of the quite magnificent co-operation you have given us. The bombing of Wesel yesterday was a masterpiece and was a decisive factor in making possible our entry into that town before midnight".
At this stage of Bombing Operations in Europe the number of 'Ops' required to complete a 'Tour' changed week by week. At the beginning of the year it was more or less standard at 30 but then it went up, first to 35 then to 40 before coming back down to 35 again in early March. When we went on our 33rd trip on 14th April we still expected to have at least another two to do. It was very much of a pleasant surprise to be told that we had finished as the tour had just been reduced again to 30!! One of the most difficult of trips was always the last with the crew
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so worked up that inevitably things went wrong and the crew failed to return. We were lucky not to have had to go through that trauma. Although so late on in the war, losses were still extremely high, with aircraft being shot down by flak and the more modern German fighters even by rocket aircraft. Losses averaged 5% per trip right up to the end. The end of the European war (VE Day) came on my last day of 'End of Tour' leave and after some celebrations on the way eventually got back to camp to find the mess having a huge party which spread onto the front lawn with fireworks and a colossal bonfire.
Without having much time to think about what was happening, the crew split up and I was posted to Catterick for "Disposal", leaving on the following day. I drove up to Catterick on official petrol coupons and went through the boring process of half choosing and half being told where to go next. At the time it seemed like a good idea to elect for Transport Command to get away from having to stay in Bomber Command and being posted to the Far East in what was known as 'Tiger Force'. I had hoped that I could get on to routes in-and-around Europe!!
After a further leave, when I had to drive on 'acquired' petrol, I was eventually posted to No. 109 Transport OTU Crosby-on-Eden near Carlisle, arriving around the beginning of June. After 4 weeks 'Ground' school – after a false start, I crewed up with:
Pilot – Flying Officer 'Butch' Harris
Signaller – Warrant Officer Ernie Omerod
and flying on DC3 (Dakotas) began on the 7th July and finished on 27th August. On the 1st August the unit was reorganised as 1383 Transport Conversion Unit and it was here that the news of the dropping of the Atom Bombs was announced, as well as the end of the war. Another tremendous party to celebrate.
I was then posted to India! Departed for Morecombe to await transit instructions. Pam came up for few days and we went fishing for Dabs with the others! On 7th October departed for Holmsley South (Hampshire) and the following day we left in a York (MW167) of 246 Squadron for Karachi via Malta, Cairo and Shiebah, arriving on the 10th. Spent a whole month kicking our heels in Mauripur (Karachi) before moving on (see photo album).
On 16th November departed in Sunderland (ML786) for Calcutta. Had a 7 1/2-hour flight, taking-off and landing in the appropriate rivers and enjoying the luxury of a civilian aircraft even though flown by a Wing Commander.
Arrived on 52 Squadron at Dum Dum, Calcutta and almost immediately started route flying in Dakotas. Places visited:
Akyab
Bangkok
Bombay
Canton
Chakulia
Chittagong
Comilla
Hong Kong
Meiktila
Nagpur
Rangoon
Saigon
Although now 3 months since the war finished, there were still the last of the Japanese soldiers (now prisoners) working at various places we flew to and there was much evidence of the utter destruction caused by their occupation. Most of our flights were to ferry the civil and military occupation forces back and forth and even to the more remote areas.
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were spent on a round trip to Rangoon via Meiktila where our Xmas Dinner was a bacon 'sarni' (we actually had flown in the bacon!)
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1946
New Year's day was spent en-route to Bombay having only returned the night before from Rangoon again. During the month we flew some 71 hours.
Until 5th May we flew with only very short breaks in between and in one month (March) flew 106 hours. It was in March when we had to divert whilst flying over Hainan Island and the only option open to us was to go to Canton (China). We became the first British aircraft to land there since the beginning of the war. As I was the senior British Officer on board the aircraft, the British Consul would only talk to me even though I was not Captain of the aircraft. He was virtually useless and was going to try and arrange for various families to accommodate us in ones and two? The American Consul offered to put everyone up in his Headquarters and I agreed to this much to the annoyance of the British bloke (I seem to remember his name was HALL). Within a few minutes everything was arranged and all 30 odd people allocated a bed, even though somewhat crowded. The crew adjourned to the bar and, as the song 'Rum & Coca-Cola' was all the rage at the time, that's what we decided to have. It slid down very easily and after eating out at a local Chinese Café we eventually returned rather noisily, tripping over various passengers beds in the process. In the morning 7 of the passengers refused to fly with us and decided to return to Hong-Kong by boat. We did the trip in a matter of minutes whilst they took nearly the whole day. To give them their due, when we met up again in Hong-Kong, their spokesman apologised to us and admitted that we knew our own job better than they thought we did and then he bought us all a further round of 'Rum & Coke'.
Soon after this episode we were allocated a very young 2nd pilot called Terry Glover, who ousted me from my usual position in the right-hand seat. After a very scary let-down into Hong-Kong (letting down well out to sea and flying very low level over the water and between the numerous islands) we were guided by our new pilot into a dead-end which was not very popular with 'Butch', who immediately climbed very rapidly, put me back in the right-hand seat and then did a smart 180 before doing another letdown. This time I was lucky enough to find the right way through the islands and from then on I always sat in the front unless the conditions were CAVU (Clear and Visibility unlimited). In 1946 Kaitak airfield was a very different airfield compared to today. The main runway was usually only used from one end (from seaward) as a 1200ft. mountain blocked the other end. It was just possible to land the other way by just scraping the top of the 'Hill' and cutting back on everything, dropping like a stone then pulling out at the last moment!! We did it a number of times but only when the weather was good and even then it was quite exciting. After the war the whole of the mountain was removed and dumped in the sea at the other end of the runway, thus extending the runway considerably. Photos in the brown embossed album just about show this hill. More pictures in the album show various other views and other places. We stayed in a transit 'Hotel' called the 'Arlington' and did a great deal of sightseeing. Bearing in mind that the colony had only just been recovered from the Japanese, there was plenty to see and do. A suite in the Peninsular Hotel (the largest at the time) had been occupied by the Japanese General commanding the colony and was fitted out to remind him of home and even had a little stream running through the bedroom!!
One of the delights of our stays in Hong-Kong was the chance to be able to drink fresh cold milk and we always made a beeline for the local Milk-Bar as soon as we arrived and indulged in the luxury of a long cold pint!! Food also seemed plentiful and we fed well in one or the other of a Russian Café on the mainland, which was called "Timoschenko's" or the "Paris Grille" over on Kowloon.
Our stops in Saigon were also not without their drama as well as relaxation. The French always resented our having taken over from them and a continuous subtle 'infighting' was always taking place. The airfield was run by a joint-force and both the French and British Flags flew side by side on separate flagpoles over the airfield Control Tower. The British troops started one night by taking the French pole down and sawing a foot off the end before putting it back up so that their flag was slightly lower than ours. Apparently it took them a long time to notice but when they did, they reciprocated. Eventually new flagpoles were required and these
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got progressively longer and longer. One evening we arrived to discover the French very much up in arms because the following day their General Leclerc was coming on an inspection visit and they had caught our chaps taking their flag away altogether. As a result we were prevented from parking our aircraft in its usual position and were made to place it in part of a semi circle of aircraft on the tarmac in front of the Control Tower. We told them that we needed to leave at our usual time the following morning (around 8.30 to 9.00) to give us plenty of time in daylight for the 6 1/2-hour flight to Hong-Kong. They chose to ignore us and insisted we park where they told us, despite our protests. When we arrived early the next morning from our hotel in the town, French troops and a large band were already drawn up inside the semi circle, awaiting the arrival of General Leclerc. We carried out our normal preparations, including starting up the engines and testing them out! This infuriated the French and when we went back into the Control Tower for Met. and Flight Clearance briefing, they threatened to arrest us. The British staff winked, gave us a full briefing, with both Met. and the arrival times of visiting dignitaries, and assured us that they would give us taxi and take-off clearance. Walking casually through the French ranks, we informed one of the officers that they would need to move whilst we taxied out but nobody moved. We then decided that it was time to go, so started up our engines again and called for taxi clearance. We got no reply so started to move forward very slowly. The troops decided to give us room to get through and moved aside, but as we turned it was necessary to rev up the port engine and this we did somewhat more enthusiastically than usual. When we managed to look back the bandsmen were chasing their sheet music all over the airfield, so we gave an extra blast just to complete the havoc. As we did so the controller came through advising us to take off immediately and clear the area. Once airborne, the British controller bid us 'good-day' and thanked us for our 'co-operation' and we could hear the glee in his voice. Almost immediately we were formatted upon by 4 Free French Spitfires and we had visions of them shooting us down. However, they stayed with us for nearly 10 minutes before breaking away sharply and going back the way we had come. We found out on the return visit that they thought we were the General's aircraft and that the General's aircraft had landed before they got back. Apparently he was NOT amused to have to arrive without an escort and the Band still not fully reformed!!
On top of all this there were Dacoits and Bandits operating in the area, and there were gunfights around the airfield and Saigon on a number of occasions. Despite all this we enjoyed our leisure in Saigon, the French Club 'Ciercle Sportif' (see Photos).
About this time, I had applied for a job with BOAC through Mr. Robson who was something to do with the Ministry of Transport. I had been given a very good character assessment by our Squadron Commander (see his remarks in my Log-Book) and had hoped that the experience of 'route' flying would stand me in good stead.
In mid May we were given 2 weeks leave and we decided to find the coolest spot we could, so decided to visit Darjeeling. We went by train to a place called Siliguri, which is at the base of the Himalayas. By the time we got there we were hotter than ever and did not relish another train ride up to Darjeeling. However, we joined a miniature train which slowly but surely wound its way up the mountains and it got progressively cooler all the time. When it got near to the top it was going round and round like a corkscrew and in many places it was possible to step off the train, as it was moving very slowly, and then walk up a few steps to meet the line again and wait for the train to come past again. There is a picture of this in the photo album and this little railway is in fact quite famous. By the time we reached Darjeeling I was freezing cold and we had to hang about whilst accommodation was arranged for us. I remember flopping down on a bed in a dingy "guest house" and the next thing I remembered was waking up in the local Forces Hospital. It seemed that I had gone down with a severe bout of flu and some other chest bug as well. I was extremely well looked after in this hospital and there were a number of Sikh and Ghurka officers in the place as well. They all had serious complaints of some sort but as I got better they were a good crowd to be with. Towards the end of the 14 days leave, the others that I had come up to Darjeeling with departed back to Calcutta and I was given an indefinite extension, with sick leave on top. Before leaving the hospital, I was taken by the others to visit the highest racecourse in the world. It was at a place called Lebong and was at 14,000 feet. It was about the size of a large football ground and spent most of the time in
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cloud. Betting was a hazardous affair, as it was not unknown for the horses to disappear into cloud on the far side of the curse, only to re-appear in a completely different order when they came back into view! However, it was very pleasant to be able to sit in a reserved box, rather like the Royal Box at Epsom, drinking our cool drinks and placing a bet when the mood took us. We never ever won anything but nevertheless didn't lose much either. One morning, very early, a whole gang of us hired horses and rode the 15 miles or so to a place called Tiger Hill where we hoped to witness sunrise over Everest. We did see Everest but the sunrise was not quite where we had thought it should be. It was a magnificent sight, however, and well worth the effort to get there. The ride back was less pleasant and we all finished up vowing never to ride a horse again. Needless to say I never have.
One of the patients from the Hospital was a chap called Captain Weston who had a very rare skin complaint which was caused by the heat and humidity of the climate on the plains. His skin peeled off in layers and as a result he nearly died. It was only in the cool of the hills that his skin was able to grow again but as soon as the Medics tried to get him back home the whole process started again. Apparently on one occasion they got him as far as Calcutta ready to catch a plane out but unfortunately the aircraft takeoff was delayed and they had to rush him back to Darjeeling having already lost nearly the whole of his skin again and once again seriously ill. I have often wondered what ever happened to him when I left.
So many people out in India and the Far East suffered from skin problems as well as the dysentery types of disease. Apart from the time in Darjeeling I cannot remember being free from some form of diarrhoea varying from slight to chronic as well as 'Prickly Heat'. We all took Malarial prevention tablets called Mepachrine, which gave a yellowy tinge to the skin. Having the 'Trots' while flying was somewhat of a problem in itself. The Dakota only had one toilet and with 35 odd passengers most of whom suffered from the same problem made things somewhat complicated!! The prickly heat was no respecter of rank and once we had an Air Commodore on board who asked if he could come up front so that he could take his Bush Jacket off and get some cold air to his body. I had never before seen anyone who was so badly affected. His whole body was one mass of it and most was infected through scratching. We opened the side windows for him and after about an hour's flying he got some slight relief. He was most grateful to us and thanked us profusely before going back to the cabin to exercise his authority over the more junior members of his party. The Medics had no cures for any of these problems in those days although they could bring some help to the dysentery sufferers.
I was very reluctant to leave the cool of Darjeeling but eventually had to and took a mad taxi ride down through the tea plantations to the railway at Siliguri and almost finished up with a heart attack as the driver was desperate to show off his skill at negotiating hairpin bends on two wheels and only one hand on the steering. The road drops from about 12,000 feet to sea level in something like 15 miles and did not seem to go more than a few hundred yards without at least one hairpin to turn back on itself. The heat at sea level hit me like an oven and the train ride back to Calcutta was enough to make me swear never to complain about being too cold again. When you are cold at least you can find some way of keeping warm but there was absolutely no way out there that you could cool off when you were too hot.
Back in Calcutta the Monsoon had started with a vengeance but I was immediately informed that I was on the next 'demob' contingent and also that I had been offered a job as Navigator with BOAC as soon as I was 'demobbed'. Very soon after I was on the train again, en-route to Bombay. This took 3 days and we played cards nearly the whole time. I swore that I would never play 'Solo' again after that. It was sweltering hot the whole time and we had all the windows open to catch the air from the movement of the train but most of the time we just got the smoke and smuts from the engine. Food was only available at each of the many stops and since the train was only carrying troops it was a mad rush each time and more often than not we had to scramble back onto the train as it started to pull out of the station without having got anything.
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At Bombay we waited in the transit camp at WORLI until our turn came. After about two weeks we finally boarded the SS Samaria, a small passenger boat, which we were told would take 13-14 days to reach home. As we sailed out of the harbour a large liner steamed in and we were told that it would embark its passengers and sail again within 12 hours and only take 7 days to get home. Sure enough the following day we were galled to see it steaming passed [sic] us with all the troops on her decks jeering at us as they shot past. We were absolutely livid at the time and as everyone was anxious to get home as soon as possible we all felt hard done by. However, we heard later that the liner had broken down and had turned round and gone back to Bombay during the night. Like the tortoise and the hare the laugh was on us as we chugged slowly but surely and arrived in Liverpool after 12 days.
After disembarking we were quickly put through the 'demob' procedure including handing in our air force kit, medicals and being issued with civilian clothes and a rail warrant home and with the minimum of fuss we caught the train to London. All this happened within 24 hours of disembarking and, similarly quickly, arrangements were made for our Wedding on 19th October at St. Andrews church Leytonstone. After a Honeymoon in Hastings I was due to start with BOAC at the beginning of November. However, following a visit to my old civilian company to tell them that I did not want my old job back, I was introduced to Air Commodore Powell who was running SILVER CITY AIRWAYS and decided to join them instead, which I did on 5th November. On the 8th I was navigating an Avro Lancastrian G-AHBW (City of London) from London Heathrow to Nairobi Eastleigh, Captained by Ex-Wing Commander Johnny Sauvage DSO & bar, DFC, arriving back to the 4 huts of Heathrow on the 24th. During December we did 3 trips to Malta and back, one of them in the then record time of 4 hours 55 minutes (see cutting from the Malta Times). Thus ended a very eventful Year.
[photograph]
Sliver [sic] City Airways – December 1946
Johnny Sauvage and crew with Lancastrian G-AHBW “City of London”
20
1947
At the end of my RAF Transport Command Course at Crosby on Eden in 1945, I had been
awarded a certificate which was recognised by the Department of Civil Aviation. Also in February 1946 I had been awarded a Second Class Navigation Warrant number 422, which was also recognised by the D of CA. Whilst working in the office of Silver City Airways (1 Great Cumberland Place, London), I was able to study the additional subjects required to obtain a Civil Aircraft Navigator's Licence. I passed all except [underlined] signalling [/underlined] and re-took this and one other subject to obtain full First Class Civil Licence in May. After another full aircrew medical, licence number 2116 was issued on 7th June 1947.
On 13th June I started flying again with Captain Storm-Clark in G-AHBV "City of Canberra" to Verona. After a further 2 months in their office (during which time Terry was born, we moved from 63 Fladgate Road, Leytonstone, to38 Warham Road, South Croydon, as well as attending a XV Squadron reunion at the Holborn Restaurant on 22nd August), I joined up with Captain R. C. "Hoppy" Hopkins as his navigator on a VIP Dakota G-AJAV. This aircraft was very luxuriously fitted out, with only 6 seats and very superior accommodation. Hoppy immediately 'promoted' me to 'pupil pilot under instruction' and I spent most of my flying time with him sitting in the second pilot's seat, often on my own, while he chatted with the passengers. We flew to France, Belgium, Germany, Portugal and Iceland, as well as locally. I was very disappointed when the aircraft was chartered to fly Churchill out to Marrakesh and I was taken out of the crew. Another pilot took my place to act as formal second pilot/navigator. Hoppy was very upset particularly as the new chap was not a very experienced pilot and had never previously acted as navigator. He had long arguments with the MD of the company (Air Commodore Powell) expressing the opinion that he 'would rather fly with an experienced navigator who at a pinch could fly the aircraft than fly with a not very experienced pilot who, at a pinch, might possibly be able to navigate the aircraft'. Unfortunately the MD would not give way and blamed the charterers, who had insisted on there being two qualified pilots on board and the firm could not afford to have a crew of four (excluding stewards etc.).
In the event I was sent to Belfast to pick up a crew to ferry a Sandringham flying-boat to Buenos Aires. The pilot was called 'Pappy' Carreras (because of his age) and we got on famously together. As well as navigator I was 'promoted' to become 'Mooring Officer', which meant that I stood in the bows to slip the mooring before take-off and had to attempt to catch the mooring buoy with a boat-hook on landing. I had thought that slipping the mooring would be very simple but more often than not it was impossible to do as the aircraft was pulling against the tide and the loop would not come off without the engines being revved hard to take up the slack. Often we surged forward so quickly that I did not have time to get the loop off before we were passing the buoy – still attached to it. Mooring after landing was also just as tricky and I lost a number of boat-hooks before I finally mastered the technique!!
On the way we ate and slept in the 'boat' as the accommodation and cooking facilities were superb. On the leg between Dakar (West Africa) and Natal (Brazil), Pappy commented that although he had done the crossing a number of times, he had never seen Saint Paul's rocks. I gaily said that this time we would see them, not realising how small they were in the wide expanse of ocean. He immediately took me up on it and some 8 hours later (the crossing took 10 hours 20 minutes) was more than astonished when I suggested that if the others were to look out of the starboard windows they might see the rocks in about 5 minutes time. More by pure luck than anything to do with me, we passed them some 6 minutes later about 1/2 mile away. From then on I could do no wrong!!
Pappy had flown during the Spanish Civil War in 1936 but unfortunately for him – on the wrong side – so that he was no longer able to go home. His flying with F.A.M.A. (Flota Aerea Merchante Argentina) meant that he had to be very careful not to ever get diverted to Spain.
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Christmas day was spent in Buenos Aires and I was able to buy some presents there that I could not get at home. (A Tri-ang bus (No. 15) and Xmas Decorations – some of which are still in use today!!) We arrived back in London on New Years Eve (without Pappy who of course normally operated from B.A.)
As a result of my various trips abroad I did not spend much time at home, although when I did, I usually was able to have plenty of time-off from work.
Sometime round about October, Terry had gone into Great Ormond St. Hospital to have a growth removed from his neck. It was more difficult to remove than had originally been thought and when he was able to come home he became very ill with Gastro Enteritis and was taken to the Mayday Hospital in Croydon. He was desperately ill to start off with and took a long time to recover.
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1948
Worked mostly in the office until April, having attended a 52 Squadron Reunion at the Waldorf Hotel on 20th February when, on 8th April, I ferried a MOSQUITO out of Turkey via Jersey & Rome landing at IZMIR. Had trouble with Turkish Customs over three wooden deer bought in Rome. They could not seem to understand way anyone should want to buy such things! An insight into to [sic] the mentality of the Turks we came into contact with is highlighted by the fact that the Turkish government had purchased 100 odd SPITFIRES and a similar number of 'Mossies'. The deliveries were almost complete by the time we took ours out there but they only had managed to have one Mosquito & two Spits' remaining serviceable by that time. The story goes that one Spitfire XI was delivered one evening and the pilot handed it over to the ground crew asking if there was anything they wanted to know about it. During the night it rained hard and when they were getting it ready for a test flight they discovered that the cockpit had a pool of water in it. To cover up the fact that the cockpit hood had been left open in the rain, one bright spark took his drill with the biggest bit that he could find and bored a series of holes in the floor and to let the water drain out!! The Turkish pilot duly took off but came back in after a fairly short flight and refused to sign the acceptance certificate because the aircraft would not pressurise. Apparently the Spitfire XI was one of the first aircraft to have cockpit pressurisation!!!
In May we went to Canada to pick up a Dakota which had just been converted for a company in South Africa. I stayed in Montreal whilst the rest of the crew went down into the States to pick it up. At the time I thought the whole set-up seemed strange but the fact that aircraft were being flown illegally into Israel at the time never occurred to me. Eventually we set off from Montreal to Newfoundland but I didn't prepare properly and we wandered miles off course and I was unable to get a pinpoint fix because I could not recognise any ground feature. Since I had been sitting in the second pilot's seat I eventually decided to go back and try to fathom out why we were 'lost'. After a long period I suddenly realised what I had done wrong – I had borrowed a Canadian map that had the various airline tracks marked on and along the side were the courses to steer. What I had not noticed was that they were magnetic and not [underlined] true [/underlined] bearings. I had applied a correction for the wind and applied variation as usual to arrive at the course for the pilot to steer. As variation in that part of the world was something like 30 degrees, we had in fact been flying 30 degrees off course!! Once I had sussed this out I was soon able to recognise where we were and to start pointing us back in the right direction. Sighs of relief all round!! If we had had some decent radio equipment aboard it would not have been so bad but the aircraft was stripped right down to bare essentials – In retrospect another odd thing.
When we landed at GANDER my preparation was suddenly very much more thorough, the next leg being across the Atlantic. With the fuel that we could carry there were three choices of route bearing in mind the winds that could be expected in the weather systems that existed. First, to head straight across to Ireland and make for Shannon – this was ruled-out as there would be barely enough fuel to do it. Second, to go southwards to the Azores. This was the best for fuel, wind & weather but without radio navigation aids was rather risky – if we missed our landfall there was nowhere to divert to within range of the fuel remaining (if any!). Third, to head for Iceland, which was much the nearest. Unfortunately, with the low-pressure system to the north, the winds would be headwind and very strong. This would again leave us very short of fuel and, as well as this, the landing conditions forecast were not very good. As a result of our discussions we decided that unless we waited a couple of days for the weather to improve, we should consider a fourth possibility of taking the short leg to Greenland, refuelling and then heading for Iceland the following day. This would only, so we thought, take one more day and would allow us to assess the fuel situation when approaching Iceland and perhaps carry on direct to Scotland and, in fact, save us time. This we finally decided to do and although we were unable to get clearance due to radio interference, the controller assured us that it would be alright as he would radio through later on whilst we were on our way. After a very frightening flight to Bluey West One, up a long fiord, we arrived only to be refused landing permission as the flight had not been cleared. Since there was no way we could get back to Gander and there were no other diversions they eventually agreed to let us land. When we did
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the aircraft was surrounded with soldiers and we were told that we would be interned until clearance could be obtained from Washington because of the Israeli situation!!
So there we sat for 7 days whilst the powers-that-be decided what to do with us. We had all bought loads of food to bring home as meat was still rationed and other foodstuffs were in short supply. We had a small fridge on board the aircraft but they would not allow us to run one engine to keep it cold and they would not store it for us. There we were, surrounded by huge Glaciers, whilst all our 'loot' went slowly off. In the end we had to dump nearly all of it. I got sunburned sitting on the nearest glacier and this did little to improve our tempers. Eventually on the 7th day we were allowed to file a flight plan to Weeks (Iceland) and we took off at 22.45 that night. At that time of year it was still almost broad daylight and we landed and refuelled in Iceland, at night but still light enough to see. Two hours later we were off again and landed at Prestwick after a 5hr 40min flight.
After this I was transferred back to flying with Hoppy but in a Bristol Wayfarer (freighter) this time. The first trip was to Karachi via all the short legs possible. We were delayed in Nicosia whilst a new propeller was sent out and we helped the engineer to change it. There was no help forthcoming from the locals (civilian & RAF) although I cannot remember why. This took 7 days and then we were delayed for a further 9 days by the Iraqi Government, so that the whole trip had taken 24 days. It was about the time of Partition in India and the whole of the region was in turmoil. I met a chap that I knew well who was running some form of charter company out there, who offered me a job on the spot, at a ludicrously high salary, if I would join him the same day. The offer was so attractive that I was sorely tempted but I did not want to break my contract with Silver City and leave Hoppy in the lurch. I suspected that the job was either gun running or illegal transport of refugees, so in the end I turned it down. I was to learn later, that the day after we left he tried to take off from Karachi and the plane was so grossly overloaded in the tail that it stalled just after becoming airborne and all aboard were killed outright. As we suspected the cargo was found to be arms and ammunition!!
The next trip was out to Iraq on charter to IPC (Iraqi Petroleum Company) and we flogged up and down the oil pipelines. Having been stuck in Baghdad last trip we had all suffered from the lack of liquid refreshment (alcohol banned and water somewhat 'iffy'), so I bought two bottles of orange squash in Malta to take with us. When I opened my case in Baghdad I discovered a somewhat wet and sticky mess where one of the bottle tops had come loose. Just about everything was covered in juice but it was not until we got to Bahrein that I was able to get everything washed and the case swilled out! It was lucky that we stayed there an extra day or else I would have had to bring the whole soggy mess back home with me. As it was the case was never the same again, even when I relined the inside with brown paper. Terry had the case for a number of years and finally gave it back to me in 1991!
At the end of September I, along with a number of other navigators, was made redundant and then I started my first experience of having to hunt for a job to keep the family fed!! I applied for a job with Flota Aerea Merchante Argentina and, along with another navigator from Silver City called Ross Plews, was called for an interview in their offices in the West-End. We were horrified to see a crowd of 20 or 30 people waiting and spilling out on to the pavement outside. We debated what to do and had decided that, as we were almost the last ones there, it was not worthwhile waiting. We were just about to walk away, when who should try to push past us than Pappy Carreras, who immediately asked me what the crowd was about. When we explained her said, "Wait there while I check in". This we did and within minutes we were called to the front of the queue, much to the disgust of most of the others, and both of us went into for interview to discover Pappy sitting at the long desk with three other officials and I was introduced to the others by him. He then said, "this is the chap I have flown with down to BA and he is the one I would choose without seeing any of the others. If his friend is as good as him we may as well take him on as well – has anyone any objections? – No! – Good! – That's it then! – Let's send all the others away. Welcome to FAMA Dennis – You are hired”.
That's how I came to be flying on an Argentinean York, en-route to Buenos Aires in the first week of November. We were delayed in Natal for three days whilst an engine fault was
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corrected and I got badly sunburned whilst swimming in the sea when there was no shade. Having arrived in Buenos Aires we were met with welcoming arms and I started to look around for somewhere to live but very shortly after a new decree was issued by Eva Peron (she was the power behind throne!) limiting the number of non-nationals working in the country. As FAMA was 75% British, 15% German and the rest Argentinean, this caused immediate problems and, since we were the last to arrive, we were scheduled as the first to go. I was offered the opportunity to navigate a force of Lincolns as a show of strength over the 'Malvinas', provided I gave up my British nationality and took on Argentine citizenship. This I refused to do and so started a week of negotiations to collect some form of compensation and what was already due to me. The expression 'mañana' really came into play and it took all our wits to find someone high enough in the organisation who had the power to do something about our plight. They, in their turn, did everything they could to beat down our demands. Once again it was Pappy Carreras who came to our rescue and we eventually got a flight back with Pappy (see 'Crossing the Line' certificate) landing back in London on the 3rd of December. We came via Madrid and Pappy had been given permission for the very first time to re-enter Spain. Even then he decided to stay in the Airport – just in case.
Once I got back I was quite surprised to get a number of phone calls from various firms offering me a job and I was able to pick and choose, finally agreeing to start at the beginning of the New Year with Flight Refuelling, the firm founded in 1934 by Sir Alan Cobham to investigate the use of air refuelling, and who's pioneering system is still in use today. The BERLIN AIRLIFT was under way and all the Charter firms were fighting for the work that it generated.
[logo] Berlin Airlift [emblem]
[drawing]
[inserted] TX 276/1281 [/inserted]
AVRO LANCASTRIAN – FLIGHT REFUELLING LTD
47403
On 23 June 1948, the Soviet forces occupying the eastern part of Germany blockaded all rail, road and waterway supply routes from the Allied Western Occupation Zones in Berlin. With less than one month’s supply of food and fuel, the prospects for the two and a half million Berliners looked bleak. Only three severely restricted air routes remained as a lifeline between the besieged city and the western world. The Allies responded immediately with a miracle of logistics – The Berlin Airlift. Codenamed Operation Vittles by the USAF, and Operation Plainfare by the RAF, over a period of 11 months Allied aircraft made thousands of flights into the cramped airspace of Berlin and succeeded in supplying everything the city needed. Every available aircraft from RAF Transport Command was in service, as well as hundreds of USAF aircraft and even civil charter firms were called upon to supplement the effort. The operation became so skilled that the Soviet Command eventually realised that they had failed and on 12 May 1949 the blockade was finally lifted.
Avro Lancastrian G-AGWI represents an aircraft which was originally delivered to British South American Airways (BSAA) at Heathrow in January 1946. The aircraft was registered to the Ministry of Civil Aviation for a short period in 1948 before being sold to Flight Refuelling in January 1949. The aircraft was then allotted fleet no. Tanker 26 and flew 226 sorties on the Berlin Airlift.
[inserted] I FLEW IN 13 OF THEM [/inserted] [diagram]
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1949
I report to Flight Refuelling at Tarrant Rushton and am crewed up with a very experienced ex-Air Lingus pilot. It was not until later that I was to discover that he had been sacked from them due to being drunk in flight! After an air test we departed in a Lancastrian for Wuntsdorf just outside Hanover on 13th January. The airfield was RAF and being used by them to fly Yorks on the airlift. It was very crowded with both aircraft and people and we were billeted in a small place called Bad Nenndorf about 10 miles away. There was a reasonable sized Hotel where all Flight Refuelling crews were accommodated. The following day we did two trips into Gatow carrying PETROL.
B.T. O'reilly was the name of the pilot and he became somewhat of a legend on the lift. However he was not a very reliable pilot when sober and, although he boasted that he could land the aircraft better 'on a sea of gin' than any other time, sometimes he was positively dangerous. On one occasion whilst flying into Gatow, I saw him climb out of his seat and then push past me and go to the back of the aircraft. I thought it would be a good idea to go forward and keep an eye on the instruments to make sure 'George' was doing its job properly. To my consternation, I saw that the aircraft was trimmed into a shallow dive (perhaps to counter his moving to the toilet at the rear of the aircraft?) and there was no sign of him returning back to his seat. When we descended below 1,000 feet I decided to get into his seat and was absolutely astounded to discover that the autopilot was not even engaged. I climbed it back up to the proper altitude and called the wireless operator to go and look for 'BT'. He reported back to say that 'BT' was 'out cold' on one of the seats at the back and he could not get him to register that he was needed! At this point we were committed to carry on towards Gatow as we were in the air corridor in the Russian Zone, so I decided that I would make up some story to over fly Gatow and hope that by the time we had got back to Wuntsdorf 'BT' might have surfaced. In the event, just as we approached the Beacon to start letting down to land, 'BT' pushed up to the front and demanded to know why I was in the pilot's seat. We swapped over and I pointed out that he had not put 'George' in when he went down the back. His reaction was happily to say, "these aircraft fly themselves!!" and then carried on to make a perfect landing. I was must relieved when I was asked to take an aircraft back to Tarrant Rushton with another pilot and never had to fly with him again. I was crewed up with a better chap on our return to Germany.
At the end of April we moved to Hamburg and started flying into Tegel instead of Gatow. In June I was allocated yet another pilot who was very young and inexperienced and I was not over happy with him either. When we were withdrawn from the airlift in mid-July, I had completed 89 flights back and forth to Berlin and also carried out a number of ferrying flights to Tarrant Rushton. (See Lecture Notes and 50th Anniversary Celebrations 1999)
[photograph]
With Col. Gail S. Halvorsen – "The chocolate pilot"
Berlin Airlift 50th Anniversary, Berlin 1999
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Two books fully detail the Berlin airlift and the part played by the civil participants (they have been suitably annotated). The one by Robert Rodrigo is the better of the two.
The end of the airlift deposited hundreds of aircrew (many of whom had only just come back into flying for the good money) on to the job market and I was unable to find another flying post. Thus ended my civil flying career.
After flying for so long, finding an ordinary job where my abilities would be of some use and would be recognized by prospective employers, was very difficult. One day I saw a friend from schooldays called Peter Filldew whom I had met at Mildenhall during the war, where he was the orderly-room clerk. He suggested he might be able to get me a job with his firm of Estate Agents (Fielder & Partners) in South Croydon. He obviously gave me a glowing recommendation as my interview was quite short, and I was offered a job as a Negotiator with a very low salary but very good commission on completion of any property that I obtained for their books or was instrumental in selling. The work was very hard and I had to spend long and unsociable hours including Saturdays & Sundays but I managed reasonably well once I gained the necessary confidence.
Soon afterwards we moved house to 248 Croydon Road and this stretched our resources to almost breaking point. The car, BAU 62, which I had bought during the war, had to go and I only managed to get £5 for it and it almost broke my heart to see it being driven away. The bungalow cost something like £1,200 and I got somewhat into debt to raise even the 10% and buying fees. Everything was based on my getting the commission on sales that I thought I should be able to earn. 1949 ended with me still working for Fielder.
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1950
One day at Fielder's, I overheard the receptionist speaking on the phone to someone called Macfarlane and casually asked what were his initials. On being told that they were N.G., I asked to speak to him and asked if he recognised my voice which, after a short pause, he did and we immediately arranged to meet. This caused uproar from the sales manager called Chillcot, who insisted that Mac was already one of [italics] his [/italics] clients and I was not to be allowed to deal with him. All my explanations fell on deaf ears and I had to phone from home to explain this to Mac. He agreed to phone up and cancel the appointment we had made and say that he was not interested anymore. We arranged to meet one lunchtime and go home to our bungalow. I then told the Sales Manager that through his stupidity we had lost a good client and this started an antagonism between us.
The meeting with Mac was quite an event and he suggested that I should re-apply to come back into the RAF and he would back my application if he could. He was still a Wing Commander but holding a post at the Air Ministry and he thought he should be able to pull a few strings.
As a result of this meeting I decided to apply and, after a long wait, was called for interview by a panel, who seemed to feel that wartime service was not a good recommendation for a peacetime commission and they did not even listen to what I had done subsequently. After a further long wait I received a letter addressed to Flight Lieutenat [sic] D. Moore informing me that they were unable to offer me a commission but they would be prepared to let me return as 'NAV 2' (which was the same as Sgt.) As much as I would have dearly loved to have got back into the Service, my pride would not let me accept such a reduction in rank and I therefore wrote back straight away telling them what I thought of their offer.
Working for Chilcott became very difficult and it was obvious that things would come to a head soon. Just when I was expecting to start collecting my first big commissions I was told that I was no good at the job and 'fired'. They would only pay me up until the last day at the basic rate, and no commission money. I appealed to Fielder but he was obviously being influenced by his sales manager and would not help me.
On the job market again, I could only get menial jobs, first as a temp in what then equated to the DHSS issuing new National Insurance Cards and then a more permanent job in the Gas Company working in their costing department. My job was to cost out all the job sheets for the week from the job rates for the various jobs and individuals. This job was running weeks behind when I joined and it did not take long before I was able to catch up and sit waiting for the current week's work dockets to arrive. When the head of my section saw this he 'warned me off' and checked every item of my work so that we looked as though we were still working weeks behind time again. This got very frustrating and I started to look around for another job.
Through the good offices of the Officers' Association I was passed a number of job openings and eventually was interviewed by a firm of grocery distributors called Harvey Bradfield & Toyer. They wanted a salesman to help introduce a Milton's product called Deosan to cafés & restaurants as a means of getting to be their suppliers for groceries as well. I was given the whole of South London to canvas and had to do it all by 'cold selling' and without the use of any transport of my own. Fortunately I made my number with the Public Health Office and frequently got called by them to visit establishments that they had found to be 'unhealthy' and I was able to introduce 'The Deosan method of food hygiene' to them quite easily. I found that the standard of cleanliness in most places I visited to be almost non-existent and the large 'posh' Hotels were the worst. I found this job quite interesting but although I did not feel I was doing a very good job of it, the firm seemed quite happy with my work.
1950 ended with me still trudging around south London and hardly making enough money to live on. Christine had been born on May 28th and this did not make things any easier.
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1951
At the beginning of the year I was still working for H.B.T. and being called-on to visit various places in the South London Area. I asked for a special visit to the Head Office to discuss my work with my boss, who still seemed quite happy with what I was doing but made no effort to increase my wages. I do not remember exactly what I actually earned each week but it was round about £50 per month.
During the last week in March I was in Croydon on a visit and decided to call again on my friend in the Recruiting Office, and here I was asked if I had thought about applying to rejoin the RAF. When I explained about having applied once already and had only been offered 'Master Aircrew' which I had turned down, the Senior Recruiting Officer asked if I would mind if he phoned Air Ministry to find out what the latest situation was. I was quite happy for him to do this and did not expect anything to come of it. It was quite a surprise when he phoned me the next day to say that if I were to apply again I would be given every consideration, so I got him to help me fill in the necessary forms which he duly sent in. It was only a few days later that I was called for interview at the Air Ministry and I went with a totally different attitude to the previous time. When asked the first question which inevitably was 'Why do you want to rejoin the RAF' I decided to take the offensive and replied 'I am not sure if I do – I want you to convince me that I should'. From this point on I could do no wrong.
A greater part of the interview came from a Group Captain on the panel who kept asking me questions about the Argentine and seemed genuinely interested in the answers that I gave. The panel were all smiling when I left and the 'Groupie' asked me to wait for him outside. He then told me that I would be hearing within the next few days – at which I laughingly said that the last time I had heard that remark it had taken over 6 weeks for them to contact me. He assured me that he literally meant 'the next few days' and then asked me if I would wait for him and walk down to the Tube with him. This I did and he told me that he was due to be posted as the next Air Attaché in Buenos Aires hence his interest in my comments.
Two days later I was called for an Aircrew Medical and, having passed this easily enough, was offered a new commission in the RAF as a Flying Officer to start at Air Ministry on April 16th (this was barely 3 weeks since I visited the Recruiting Office in Croydon). Needless to say I accepted and duly reported for duty on the day required and then spent a month getting kitted out and doing some odd jobs for a Wing Commander in one of the departments there. Along with 13 other people reported to Central Navigation School at Shawbury on 23rd May for a Navigation Instructors Course. I teamed up with Jimmy Cuthill (with whom I shared a room) and Bob Hunter (who was a Canadian serving in the RAF).
[photograph]
Navigation Instructors Course, Shawbury 1951
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On 17th June I went with most of the others to Sick Quarters to have our inoculations brought up to date and as soon as I had had mine I began to feel odd. We all trouped back to the classroom and settled down to a lecture on 'how not to lecture' and I could feel myself 'blowing up like a balloon' and my heart racing like mad. I bemoaned the fact that I had never had a reaction to 'jabs' before and I really did feel rough. The Instructor eventually noticed that there was something wrong and told me to go back to the Mess and lie down. I remember 'floating' back and one of two gardeners asking me for the time and me just laughing back at them because I could not see the time on my watch. The next thing I knew was someone asking me how I felt and me just laughing like a mad thing again, and then later somebody standing over me and saying "I am just going to inject some adrenalin into you – you will find yourself shaking but try not to fight it – just let yourself go". I was then carried out to an ambulance and taken to the Station hospital. It seemed like hours before the shaking stopped but eventually it did and I felt very much better – in fact even asked for something to eat as I was hungry! Needless to say, I did not get a meal but was allowed a drink. After a while the M.O. (doctor) came to see me and explained what had happened. I had suffered an 'angino-neurotic' type of reaction to the inoculation and this was extremely rare and quite often fatal unless caught in time. It seems that when the lesson finished everyone wandered back to the Mess for lunch and, since it was a little late, everyone went straight in to eat except Jimmy Cuthill, who decided he ought to check up to see how I was. He found me unconscious on the bed and immediately called for the M.O. but could not find him. Fortunately he looked in the dining room and when he saw him eating his lunch insisted that he came up to our room immediately. The M.O. told me that if I had been left much longer I could very well have died. The humorous part of the story was that, after a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast in bed, I felt completely fit and was allowed to rejoin the others in class. They were all sitting moaning about sore arms and feeling rotten and I was 'feeling no pain' and was able to 'lord' it over them for the rest of the day!
Flying started on my Birthday on Mark XI Wellingtons! and the course finished with an overseas flight using special navigation techniques (Grid Navigation). I was then posted to No. 1 Air Navigation School at Thorney Island and I reported there on 13th August. This was a prime posting and I was very pleased to get such a good one. However, it soon became obvious that something was not quite right. When I applied for married quarters I was told that I would not be considered "just yet" and no explanation was given when I queried this. When I tried to find out which courses I would be looking after I was allocated as course tutor and then, a little later, told that I was to be held in reserve pending the arrival of another course tutor. I then learnt that this new chap was Les Dibb who had been in the same Group at Shawbury and had hoped to be posted to Thorney but had eventually been posted to Lindholme. It then became fairly obvious that some 'string pulling' had been going on by someone at Thorney.
For the Open Day at Thorney I had arranged for Pam to bring Terry down for the day to look around and see the show. Nobody was more disappointed than me to have to tell her when she arrived that we were not going to be staying, since I had just been informed that my posting to Thorney was cancelled and that I was to report to No. 5 Air Navigation School at Lindholme on 19th September. Terry enjoyed the show until two aircraft flew over and dropped bags of flour (to represent bombs) and fake bangs designed to simulate the explosions & the crashes from the 'Anti Aircraft guns' frightened the life out of him. He yelled his head off and did not want to see anything else and all he wanted to do was to go home.
Just before leaving Thorney I met Ernie Ormerod (signaller) from back in 1946 as well as another signaller that I knew called 'Chuck' Radcliffe who was also on 52 Sqn. I really did not have enough time to do more than say hello before I was on my way.
I duly reported to Lindholme somewhat bitter about the whole thing but was immediately made Course Tutor under Flight Lieutenant 'Mick' Munday on No. 2 Long Navigation Refresher Course. This comprised 6 Officers and 1 NCO who had either been off flying for some long time or who had just come back into the Service. One of them, Flt.Lt. Willis, had been on the same course as me at ITW in Newquay. At the time he was re-mustering from Corporal SP
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(RAF Police) and we had given him a hard time during 'rough and tumble' games on the Beach. He subsequently became the Navigator with Prince Charles when he was learning to fly. They were a good crowd and I got on well with all of them. Our Classroom was a concrete hut, which had been used by the Poles as a church during the war and all the walls had been panelled with carved wood and decorated with religious artefacts. I could not get into quarters so I started looking around for somewhere to live (without much success), so I had travel up and down to Beddington whenever I could manage a weekend off. Without a car it was very difficult but I did manage to get lifts from time to time.
[photograph]
[underlined] No.2 L.N.R. COURSE. [underlined]
BACK ROW:- F/LT. CARR, F/O. GREEN, SGT. JONES, F/O. SWINFIELD.
FRONT ROW:- F/LT. WILLIS, F/O. D. MOORE, F/LT. H. MUNDAY, F/LT. HINGE, F/LT. ROWLAND.
NEGATIVE No LIND 290G 9 UN52/UNCLASSIFIED
When the Long Nav. refresher course finished we started to run navigation courses for National Service people. We found this to be very frustrating as most of those on the course were not the slightest bit interested in what they were doing and they had only chosen to become 'Navigators' as an easy way to spend their time instead of becoming 'PBI' (soldiers!) It was further made much worse when we were informed from a higher source that none of them were to be 'failed' (some political reason no doubt). One of them (a Pilot Officer Simpson) was so bad and such a bad influence on the others that we fought tooth and nail to get him 'scrubbed' but all we did was to made [sic] trouble for ourselves for 'making waves'. I shall always remember his face when he eventually 'passed out' as a navigator and was promoted to Flying Officer. He boasted openly that he was cleverer than us because he had 'beaten the system'. At the time I could only hope that he never had to put a flying crew at risk, as he would surely kill them all and himself as well. I often wonder what happened to him.
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1952
In the New Year we decided to sell the Bungalow and find somewhere up near Lindholme whenever we could. I negotiated with a Sergeant Paine who wanted to sell his car, and he agreed to accept a deposit and the balance as soon as we had sold the house. I did make it clear that I could not possibly pay him until the money came through from the solicitors and we had not even found a buyer for the Bungalow. At the time he seemed quite happy to agree to this but later had doubts and then started to cause me hassle. The car was a Hillman Minx Reg. No. FA7136, which served us well until about 1956.
In the meantime I found a house that the RAF were prepared to take on as a 'hiring' in Crabtree Drive at Five Lane Ends, Skellow, Just off the A1, about 7 miles North of Doncaster and I was able to start setting up a home there. Nowadays the Motorway around Doncaster rejoins the A1 just there and you can just see the road from the Service station at the junction.
The Bungalow sold quite quickly and we got £2,850 for it, having paid about £950 when we bought it. It took a while for all the loose ends to be tied up but eventually I got the money, paid off Sgt. Paine and moved the family up to the new place. Pam was sadly disappointed with it but the people were all very friendly and she began to like it after a while. We had a number of excursions from there and went to the sea at Hornsea on two or three occasions.
Having done well with No. 2 LNR Course I applied for a permanent commission but the Group Captain (Laine – I think) told me that I did not have the right kind of experience to suit me for a permanent career and turned me down. The Chief Navigation Instructor was Wing Commander Hickey (nicknamed 'Bone dome'), who also did not think much of me either. I rather think it had something to do with my leaving Thorney Island under odd circumstances.
After only a year and just getting settled into the house, I was surprised to find myself posted yet again. This time it seemed like a real improvement but very much a 'desk' job as one of the Navigation Examiners at the Command Examination Board, Flying Training Command at Shinfield Park just outside Reading. Our offices were in old huts a little removed from the main building and here began one of the more interesting posts of my career. We managed to find a bungalow to rent from a Mrs Samways at 36 Wood Way, Woodley and we were able to move from Doncaster quite quickly.
Having settled in, I was allocated the exams for the navigator's finals that I would be responsible for. These were: astro-navigation, maps & charts and magnetism & compasses. I also had to set the general navigation paper for pilots. I did not have much time to think before having to do a full set of exams and, only by Christmas, start to really appreciate the scope of the job.
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1953
To start off with, I had discovered that the questions on the subjects that I was to specialise in had previously been picked out by the examiner from a 'bank' of questions based on what had been set previously. After thinking about it for a while and based on my own experience decided that it was possible for the Instructors at the various Training Schools to work out a permutation which would more or less guarantee to predict over 60% of the questions.
All the exam papers were vetted by the newly appointed Chief Examiner (Gordon Arkley) and I did not have much difficulty in convincing him that we should be a bit more professional and he agreed that I could start-off by changing the system in one subject to be going on with. I started with astro navigation and set what I considered to be a very practical paper instead of the usual theory one. I sat back and waited and on the day of the exams the phone stated [sic] to ring and complaints came in thick and fast – 'Unfair', 'Not what we have been used to'; 'We were not able to prepare the students!' etc., etc. As a result, I was asked to attend a high power meeting of all the Chief Navigation Instructors and the senior people on the Examinations Board. In the meantime, I received all the papers for marking and the results showed that one school did very well but all the others failed miserably. When I was grilled at the meeting I was very pleased to have the backing of my own boss. When all of them were presented with the evidence that, apart from the one school, the others had not covered the syllabus properly and 'only taught what was necessary to get the students through the exam', there were a number of red faces and I was not very popular with them. However, the Chief of the Examination Board asked the schools to go back and put their houses in order and told them that from here on in, [underlined] [italics] all [/italics] [/underlined] examinations would be based on the new method and not on the 'Question Bank' method'. He then congratulated me on setting a fair and very practical paper, which should have been welcomed instead of being complained about. So began a new regime and after a while everyone agreed that things were much better than they used to be. We also move into better offices.
Gordon Arkley dabbled in amateur dramatics and had contacts with the film studios at Pinewood. One day he took me across there for lunch and introduced me to Glynis Johns and Robert Newton as well as a couple of other famous film stars whose names escape me. After a very 'boozy' lunch, we went across to the film-set and watched for a couple of hours. I cannot recall which film it was but it became one of the big hits of the 1950's. It was a most interesting experience.
During the year, I managed to get in a few hours flying from White Waltham airfield, mostly in Ansons, to visit other Flying Training Command units (to the Isle of Man and also to Northern Ireland). I also flew in a Procter, a Prentice and a Chipmunk.
It was just before Christmas, when I was sitting at my office desk, busy painting the air traffic control vehicle with black and white squares for the model airfield that I was making for Terry's Xmas present, when the Air Officer Commanding (Sir Arthur Pendred) chose to make his inspection (without notice) of the Examination Board's offices. I really thought I was in for big trouble for doing private work in duty time. When asked what I was doing, I decided to say precisely what, and why I was doing it! He did not blink an eyelid, had a good look at the model and then, as he turned for the door, wished me a happy Christmas and hoped that I managed to get it all finished in time!! Needless to say I put it all away quickly and tried to get on with some 'proper work'. I still expected that there would be repercussions but there never were. Some 5 year later (16/7/58), I was stationed at Pershore and I was flying with Group Captain Innes-Crump to a meeting at West Malling. When we entered the Bar in the Mess to get a drink before lunch, there was a large group in the corner surrounding a very senior officer – It was Sir Arthur! I was never more surprised in my life when he broke off talking to the others and called across to me to come and join his party. He greeted me as though I was a long lost friend and, remembering my name, ordered drinks for me and the Group Captain before asking me, with a smile on his face, if I ever managed to get [italics] that [/italics] Xmas present finished in time!! A marvellous man.
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1954
Started building model aircraft again and flew them in the fields at the back of the bungalow. After losing a glider, I made a Hawker Hunter powered by a 'jet' engine (in fact it was a pellet that had to be lit!) and Terry became quite upset when it got lodged up a tree. He started school in Woodley and has been back there recently to retrace his steps.
Bob Hunter, a Canadian who had been on the same course as me at Shawbury, was also based at Reading and he was always popping round to our place. He and his wife Marg are pictured, in the photo album, with us at the New Years Eve Party.
Having sat and worried about what happened last Xmas, was quite surprised to be offered, in February, a job on the Air Staff as Command Search & Rescue Officer & also to look after the Command Film Library. Apparently there was considerable opposition from some of the others working there (mostly Wing Commanders and above) as normally only 'Permanent Commission' officers were offered this sort of post. However my new boss, Wing Commander Bagott, made it quite clear that someone 'on high' had approved my appointment and immediately suggested that I apply for a permanent commission (my original commission was 'Short Service' – i.e.: 8 years). When I pointed out that I had already applied and been turned down and was reluctant to go through it all again, he offered to have the necessary forms filled in and all I needed do was sign them! By the end of the day this was done, and two days later I was called away from my office to attend an Assessment Board. I was totally unprepared for this but was assured that I did not need to go and get 'dressed up' and 'not to worry'! The interview took about 2 minutes and was a complete farce – we just passed pleasantries! Within a few minutes I was told that, of the 13 candidates having been seen, I was the only one to be recommended. After a few days I was called for another interview with an AVM Allison who carried out a proper 'grilling' but he was very pleasant about it and made it quite plain that it was just a formality.
Shortly afterwards I was offered a brand new Married Quarter and we then moved into 15 Salmond Road, Whitley Wood – right opposite the Baggots! The appointment to a Permanent Commission was not confirmed until 25th August and backdated to 1st June 1954. (I had already been informed verbally quite early on).
[certificate]
In my new job I did a fair bit of visiting and on one occasion, whilst flying with Group Captain Alvey stopping off a [sic] various Units, I had a further brief meeting with Mac (my 'skipper' on Bomber Command). Due to my interest in model making I also got involved in the RAF Model Aircraft competitions and was 'asked' to act as a Judge on a couple of them (see pictures in album).
Here I was introduced to my first flight in a jet aircraft – the Canberra. I have to say that I did not particularly enjoy it (I got air-sick).
My work was very absorbing and most of the dissenters soon began to accept me. I enjoyed mixing with quite senior officers and only found it difficult to get on with some of the 'upward pushing' more junior people. We became very friendly with our next-door neighbours – The Lacey's and we all got on very well together. Christine had started school here and most of the children from 'The Patch' went there as well.
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1955
Having got nicely settled down in our Married Quarter I was somewhat disappointed to receive a Posting Notice in early January. However, I was told that it was supposed to be a prestige posting and about two weeks later I left Reading in a heavy snow blizzard on my way to the Royal Radar Establishment Flying Unit at RAF DEFFORD, near Worcester.
The Mess was deserted when I arrived in the gloom of a Sunday evening, with the snow still pelting down. Later, one or two others came in for a drink and were so friendly that I began to feel a little less dejected than I had been during the journey there. So began almost 5 years of a marvellous posting.
Initially, I lived in the Mess and immediately started flying in various aircraft, on trials of equipment designed by the 'boffins' at the Royal Radar Establishment at Malvern. My first flight was in Hastings TG503 piloted by 'Bert' Welvaert, aged 36, who claimed to be 'the youngest grandfather in the Air Force'. I next met up with Bert at the Berlin Airlift 50th Anniversary in May 1999
[photograph]
Bert Welvaert and myself standing if [sic] front of Hastings TG503’.
This aircraft is now on permanent display at the Allied Museum in Berlin.
I flew in the following types (in no particular order) during my stay on the unit (over 1000 hours all told):
Hastings
Lincoln
Shackleton
Dakota
Varsity
Ashton
Wayfarer
Marathon
Hermes
Devon
Valetta
Meteor
Canberra
Vampire
Whirlwind (Helicopter)
Fairly early on, I quite often flew with a pilot called Flt. Lt. Chase in a Hastings and around March time was scheduled to fly with him again on a trip to Farnborough. One of the other navigators, a Canadian (whose name I cannot remember), asked me to swap with him as he needed only a couple more hours to make up his first '1,000 hrs' before he left the unit to return to Canada. I agreed to do so just to do him a favour, but in the event I did myself a very special one as the aircraft crashed on take off from Farnborough, killing the navigator and severely injuring the flight engineer. The pilot and signaller were less severely injured and the two passengers in the back escaped with only minor injuries. When the news was first
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received, many of us were briefed to quickly break the news to the various wives and families. I was allocated the flight engineer's wife, wishing like mad that I had been able to go to the signaller's instead. However, as it turned out I was lucky again, as the signaller, whose wife had been told that he was "OK and not too badly hurt", had a relapse the following day and died from 'secondary shock'. On the other hand, John Mills the flight engineer, who had not been expected to live, remained in a coma for nearly a month and suddenly woke up one morning demanding to be fed as he was [italics] starving [/italics]! Although he finished up with a plate in his head, he actually returned to flying about six months later. The pilot recovered enough to return to flying but was posted away quite quickly when it was established that he had attempted to take off with the flying control locks still in place (i.e. [underlined] Pilot Error [/underlined])!
It is worth pointing out however, that the Hastings had mechanical locks of a new type instead of the old wooden blocks that fitted on the outside and had to be removed before getting into the aircraft. With the new method there was a lever in the cockpit that had to be actuated to release the locks. If the lever was operated whilst the aircraft had airflow over the wings etc., it did not release the locks as it was designed to do. As a result of this accident a modification was introduced to rectify the fault.
The funeral of the navigator took place in the local church in Pershore and I was a Pall Bearer for the funeral of the signaller in Scarborough. Once these funerals were out of the way, life gradually got back to normal.
After a short while I managed to find a 'hiring' – a large detached house in a very nice spot – 'Severn Croft', Bevere, in Worcester – and moved the family away from Reading. We have lots of expensive furniture, curtains etc., which has to be put away in store for safety. Started to make friends with the 'Lentons & Skeers' for Terry & Christine.
Peter was born in December and a new house is started in the field next to us. I did not fly at all this month and managed a fair bit of time off.
Pictures of us at the Summer Ball are in the photo-album.
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1956
The new Flight Commander (the unit split into two flights – 'A' Flight for piston engined & 'B' for jet aircraft), Sqn Ldr Tebbutt, shared an interest in model making and he started building a model boat whilst I stick to aircraft. I made a Tiger Moth, which flew well, and we used the airfield at weekends. Other aircraft that I made seemed to crash too easily and the Radar servicing Manager suggested that I use radio control. He offered to help me build it but I decided to put it into a model boat rather than aircraft as this was much safer.
Early in the year I got myself elected Mess Secretary, which slowed down the flying somewhat – sometimes to only 10-12 hours each month.
Being Mess Secretary became an almost full time job and, mixed in with developing a new radio control system to put into the destroyer that I built, my time was fully occupied and very rewarding. Two major Mess functions during the year and, as this was such a small Unit, I found myself suggesting, designing and constructing all the decorations for both of them. Fortunately the civilian component of the Unit made sure that I was able to get marvellous procurement & engineering assistance.
Peter was 1 year old just before the Christmas Ball and lots of locals attended his party.
1957
Started flying helicopters and was allowed to take the controls on odd occasions, eventually having some 'formal' instruction. I was told that fixed wing pilots are somewhat difficult to convert whereas other aircrew categories with good 'air sense' usually learn quite quickly. After about 10 hours dual I became reasonably competent and passed the 'brick wall' of it being in charge of you, to you being in charge of it!!
[photograph]
RRFU Defford, 1957
Group Captain Innes-Crump took me under his wing and nominated me as his navigator. We did various trips to conferences etc. and eventually he let me do most of the flying and some take-offs & landings (in a Devon). Many of the pilots started to let me fly the aircraft from the right-hand seat and eventually I even landed a Hastings all on my own (or at least I thought I did).
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[photograph]
Lincoln at zero feet!
Flying with Group Captain Innes-Crump (OC, RRFU Pershore)
At end of October the Unit moved from Defford to Pershore and took on a somewhat more formal atmosphere, which was not to everyone's liking.
10th December 1957, Peter's 2nd birthday and disaster on the Unit. One of 'B' Flight jet aircraft went missing and presumed crashed in the hills over North Wales. I had to visit the wife of one of crew members to warn her that her husband 'would be late home'. A dreadful story to delay the almost inevitable. As a result I was also 'late home' for the Birthday Party and could not say why – I was not very popular!!
Next day, along with others, flew a 4-hour sortie to see if we could find the crash site. Although flying very low ourselves amongst the treacherous hills, we could not find anything. Just before we were due to leave the area, we received a message that Mountain Rescue team had found the site and both crew had been killed. It was some way from where we had been looking near 'Drum Hill'. Another funeral to attend, and just before Christmas too. However see picture in album of us at Xmas Ball a few days later!
1958
Lots of flying each month this year mostly in:
Hastings
Varsity
Devon
Valetta
July – see item, 5th paragraph of 1953 re. Sir Arthur Pendred. Also see article & photos in 'Air Clues'.
The atmosphere at Pershore was not the same as at Defford. However, we all became very settled in at Bevere and friendly with neighbours – Lentons around corner, the Hucksters at the back and the next-door families on both sides. – A very pleasant year.
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1959
At beginning of year got in regular flying each month. Flew in a Meteor for the first time with Wing Commander Lawrence as pilot. Also did some more helicopter piloting but had become quite stale after so long.
April was particularly busy, flying, but after the first few days in June got caught for admin work.
On 10th July I was handed a signal informing me along with others (but not Flt. Lt. Smith mentioned in signal – see photo-album), that passage was booked on the FLANDRE, sailing 17th July, to attend a training course on the 'Thor Missile' in the USA. Mad panic to get ready and needed to get a Dinner Jacket for the voyage and other items at a time when I was particularly low on funds. Pam was not very happy with the idea of me being away for so long and having to look after everything on her own. Fortunately the neighbours at Bevere were all very supportive.
Travelled First Class by train from Worcester via London where we were joined by another group of RAF but who considered themselves very superior and tried to keep apart from us as much as they could. The Flandre was a French passenger liner of some 15,000 tons and the First Class passengers (mostly American – and us of course!) were extremely well looked after. After a very enlightening voyage and a charter flight to TUCSON Arizona, we started our training on Thor missiles at Davis Monathon AFB. Our group consisted of: self; Flt. Lt. Colin Reeve; Flt.Lt. Walker; Flt. Lt. Evans & Flg. Off. Nancarrow, together with Americans: Captains Jim Hadsell; Mel Schaffer & Carl Heintz. After an intensive 'ground' training period there, we travelled by car with Jimmy Hadsell via the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam to Vandenberg AFB California.
[photograph]
Davis Monathon AFB, Tucson Arizona
Standing (in uniform), L-R: Flight Lieutenants John Evans, Jeff Walker, Colin Reeve, Myself
Below: USAF Captains Jim Hadsell and Mell Schaffer, Flying Officer Frank Nancarrow,, Captain Carl Heintz
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When the training had finished, another charter flight back to New York and thence on the SS America back to Southampton, where I was met by the family, who had been driven there by Mr Lenton.
Posted to No. 82 Squadron SHEPHERDS GROVE as Launch Control Officer in December.
[photograph]
RAF Thor Launch, July 1959
Vandenberg AFB, California
1960
Found a bungalow in Diss – about 10 miles from Shepherds Grove – to take on as a 'Hiring'. We moved from 'Severn Croft' on a very bleak and foggy day. It was very nostalgic as we had started to 'put down roots' in Worcester and very difficult as far as Schools were concerned. The journey was very hazardous as the car was loaded down with all the last minute items – Including the animals. At one point near Diss we finished up in a field because the fog was so thick – but eventually got to Diss about 4 hours later than planned.
I had not been in the Bungalow for long and was at home one lunchtime, when a Victor en-route for Honington, passed overhead quite low making a horrible roaring noise. We all rushed outside to see the aircraft on fire and will the crew to eject (we did not know at this time that only the pilots had ejection seats). Eventually, parachutes were seen to open but the aircraft dived into the ground about 2 miles away. As I was in uniform, I decide to drive towards the crash sight [sic] to see if I could help – but before I could get within a mile of it I was held up by masses of sightseers crowding the narrow lanes. In the end I gave up and returned home. It transpired that 2 of the crew had been killed – one of them opening his 'chute too late and the other (one of the pilots) getting out too late.
Spent the whole of the year on shift covering 365 days a year and having responsibility for 3 Thor nuclear missiles every time I was on shift.
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1961
Was selected to join the Feltwell Thor Missile Training Flight after categorisation by Bomber Command. [italics] Second US trip, this time to Vandenberg AFB, California for THOR test firing] [/italics]
[photograph]
82 Squadron crew. With RAF THOR Missile, Vandenberg AFB
1962
[inserted] Fl/L Moore [/inserted]
Headquarters Bomber Command,
Royal Air Force,
High Wycombe,
Bucks.
[underlined] Order of the Day [/underlined]
[underlined] To all Thor Squadrons and Stations [/underlined]
The decision to phase out the Thor Force of Bomber Command in no way detracts from the vital role which the force played in the past, and the significant part it will continue to play in future, until the very last missile is withdrawn.
Thor was the first strategic missile system operational in the West. At a time when the threat to this country came almost entirely from manned aircraft, you were the most formidable part of the defence of the United Kingdom, and the Western Alliance.
You in the Thor force have maintained a constant vigil day and night for almost four years. You have maintained a higher state of readiness in peacetime than has ever been achieved before in the history of the Armed Forces of the Crown. I am well aware of the sacrifices, so willingly accepted, that this constant readiness has imposed on the officers and airmen of the force.
I am content that History will recognise your devoted service in the cause of peace. I know that I can rely on you for the same devotion during the rundown phase, as you have shown since the birth of the force in 1958.
[signature]
(K. B.E. CROSS)
Air Marshal.
Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief.
Bomber Command
2nd August, 1962.
Announcing the rundown of Britain's THOR missile defence programme
41
[page break]
1963
A very severe winter and had great difficulty travelling back and forth. On the way to Shepherds Grove, while driving along a cutting through a snowdrift, a car coming the other way crashed into me. Although my car was damaged, after temporary repairs I managed to drive it back to Diss and put it in to garage for proper repair. In the meantime, I used the Vespa scooter to get to the Units to do my categorisations. Strange, but everyone seemed to know I was coming, so the grapevine seemed to be working overtime.
All the pipes froze up at 102 Victoria Road, including the underground ones from the mains. Had to get water from our next-door neighbours, who remained unaffected. The Council eventually cleared the mains by passing an electric current in some way.
In July I was informed that [underlined] [italics] my services were no longer required by the RAF [/italics] [/underlined] and that I was to have a 'Last Tour Posting' somewhere nearby. I was shattered by this news as I had very high ratings in my job and good yearly assessments. I appealed to the Group Captain who was as much astounded as I was, particularly as other officers were being kept on whom he would 'court martial' given half a chance. Eventually he informed me that somewhere, someone with 'influence' didn't like me, and I must have upset whoever it was. So no reprieve!
Middle of July, I was posted to 721 Mobile Signals Unit based at Methwold as Commanding Officer – very strange! I was met with the results of a drunken brawl amongst members of the Unit under the previous CO and it took all of my energy and some very smooth talking to get it sorted out. Managed to restore unit pride with only two people being posted away and reprimands for a couple of others. It turned into a happy posting once I got everyone on my side. Managed to get damage fixed without any further problems.
The unit acted as a bomb plot for the "V" Force and had the call sign 'BRANTUB'. Unfortunately in October the unit was ordered to move to Lindholme. So much for it being a 'Last Tour Posting' [underlined] [italics] near [/italics] [/underlined] present residence.
1964
The Lindholme posting was not as bad as expected. Fell ill with flu just as move took place and when I finally drove up there from Diss I found the Unit on an isolated site, well away from the rest of the Station (see photos in 'Nostalgia' album). Everything was in good order and working well, all thanks to the good spirit now on the unit and a Warrant Officer who worked wonders to get it going. I now had an assistant, Pilot Officer Frank Moss, who was a navigator on Vulcans. Since we were acting as a "Bomb Plot" for the "V" Force, I think the idea was for him to persuade me to give good scores despite some of the dismal results they had been getting previously!
Made a number of suggestions for improving our lot on the Station and moral was very high. Managed to get us out of AOC's inspection and this also went down well. On the operational side I was able to invent a means of our not having to listen to the sound put out to simulate "Blue Steel" bombing. This was achieved by converting the sound signal into a visual meter display so that we could watch rather than having to listen for 10 minutes each run. Everyone at Bomber Command were surprised that nobody had thought of this before.
After we had settled in and were given a good result from the Bomber Command Inspection Team, I managed to arrange our shifts so that I could get away for longer periods. Finally, at the end of October, I was given a firm retirement date. I was given a very emotional farewell from the Unit and, although the practice was frowned upon in higher circles, I was given an inscribed watch as a going away present from all the members of the Unit (some 26 people excluding myself).
42
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From Lindholme I was finally posted to Honington to begin formalities to leave the Air Force. I only spent a few days there, handing in Kit and obtaining all the necessary clearances. On 19th November I drove away from Honington having finally 'retired'. I shall always remember it being rather like a dream but I do recall listening on the car radio to a program featuring Pam's cousin, Christopher Gable, who was leaving the Royal Ballet to take up an acting career (Christopher's last performance with the Royal Ballet was in 1965. He died in 1998).
The break was so great that I was hardly able to make any plans for the future.
Right: The final farewell
[Ministry of Defence Crest]
MINISTRY OF DEFENCE
MAIN BUILDING, WHITEHALL, LONDON, S.W.1.
TELEPHONE WHITEHALL [indecipherable number]
29th October 1964
Dear Flt. Lt. Moore
The Secretary of State for Defence has it in command from Her Majesty The Queen to convey to you on leaving the Active List of the Royal Air Force her thanks for your long and valuable services.
May I take this opportunity of wishing you all good fortune in the future.
[signature]
Flight Lieutenant D. Moore
43
[page break]
1965
I managed to get a job with Marconi at Southend working with the modifications team and liaison with the RAF! It was very poorly paid but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.
We decided to move away from Diss and chose Chelmsford as the best place to settle down. It was the nearest into London that I wanted to go and the furthest out that Pam wanted to be. We started looking around and were particularly interested in some new houses being built on a development on the edge of town on Springfield road. They were more than I could really afford and the one we liked was suddenly sold to someone else. We needed to move quite quickly and when we saw a chalet bungalow, which Pam seemed to like, we decided to set the wheels in motion to buy it. No sooner had we paid a deposit than one of the new ones came back on the market, even before the walls had been built, so we decided to buy that one instead. I managed to commute half of my £500 a year RAF pension and the £250 translated into a cash sum of nearly £6,000, which only left a small mortgage requirement. The purchase proceeded reasonably smoothly and we finally moved into 2 Llewellyn Close on 9th April 1965. Moving into a newly built house was not such a good idea and all sorts of snags were encountered.
Only earning a pittance and very unhappy with what was expected of me, I started to look around again for another job.
1966
Got a job as Training Officer with Littlewoods operating out of Basildon, visiting all their stores in the south of England. Found it very difficult as all the lady supervisors were very suspicious of me and not at all co-operative. Was suddenly called up to Liverpool and made redundant with no reason given.
1967
Spent the whole year job hunting and at last got a job with John Zinc just outside St. Albans.
1968
21/10/68 – 13/12/68. Completed a Training Officer course (construction Industry) in Slough.
Finally got a reasonable job with Balfour Beatty in Bread St. London but had to leave after they moved to Croydon.
1970
At last I got a decent job! Started with Powell Duffryn, Great Tower St. London on 19th January but made redundant when they de-centralised
1971
After spending most of the year job hunting I finally started working for Letchworth and District Printers Group Training Scheme on 1st December
44
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1972
After travelling the 43 miles back and forth to Letchworth every day and finding it very tiring, we decided to look around for housing in Letchworth. I made up my mind that I wanted to be as near to work as possible and not have to travel any distance at all. Unfortunately this was a period of 'gazumping' and although our offer on the nice house we found in Cloisters Road and had been accepted, suddenly they had another buyer prepared to offer more. Reluctantly we bid for our present house and once again the offer was accepted. At the time of the year it looked much better than it actually was and, to make things worse, the day after swapping contracts the house in Cloisters came back on the market. We had easily sold our Chelmsford house and had completed on that, so we could not afford to change our minds. We finally moved into 116 West View on 15th May 1972.
Having been promised help in re-location by my employers, the Committee that had originally made the offer changed and all the new lot were prepared to give me was £100. I was not very happy about this and made my feelings very plain. But they just shrugged their shoulders.
1973 – 2010 No further entries
[photograph]
Celebrating my 80th Birthday
DM Memoirs (second Edition) Compiled and edited by Terry Moore, October 2010
Appendix and additional photographs – January 2011
Postscript – May 2012
Foreword – July 2012
[italics] The editor accepts no responsibility for inaccuracies [/italics]
45
[page break]
Postscript
The funeral service for my father took place at Harewood Park Crematorium, Stevenage, on Thursday 11th November 2010, attended by family, friends, representatives from the XV Squadron Association and colleagues from the North Herts. Branch of the Aircrew Association, of which he was president.
Like most airmen of his generation, Dad had a great affection for the Avro Lancaster, in which he spent many flying hours as navigator in both war time and peace, so it seemed most fitting that his ashes be scattered from the only remaining Lancaster still flying in this country.
[photograph] [photograph]
In May 2011, my wife and I made the ninety-mile trip to RAF Coningsby in Lincolnshire where the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight is stationed and left the casket in the care of the Public Relations Manager who was to make the necessary arrangements.
[photograph] [photograph]
Dad took his "last flight" on 29th August 2011 in Avro Lancaster PA474 escorted by the Spitfire and Hurricane of the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight. His ashes were scattered over North Norfolk, England.
[chart]
BBMF flight schedule for 29/08/2011
Terry Moore, May 2012
46
[page break]
1945 Appendix 1 Operational Sorties – September 1944 – April 1945
[underlined] NO 218 SQUADRON RAF METHWOLD Aircraft Letters "HA" [/underlined]
[underlined] 17/09/1944 [/underlined]Sortie No: 1 (Daylight). Target [underlined] BOULOGNE [/underlined]
Aircraft – PD277 Code "A". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 2 hours 45 minutes
762 Aircraft – 370 Lancasters; 351 Halifax; 41 Mosquito. Dropped more than 3000 tons of Bombs on German positions around Boulogne in preparation for an attack by Allied troops. The German garrison surrendered soon afterwards.
1 Lancaster & 1 Halifax lost.
[underlined] 23-24/09/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 2 (Night time). Target [underlined] NEUSS [/underlined]
Aircraft – PD256 Code "J". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 4 hours 35 Minutes
549 Aircraft – 378 Lancasters; 154 Halifax; 17 Mosquito. Most of the bombing fell in the dock & factory area. A short local report only says that 617 houses & 14 Public Buildings were destroyed and 289 people killed/150 injured.
5 Lancasters & 2 Halifax lost.
[underlined] 26/09/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 3 (Daylight). Target [underlined] CAP GRIS NEZ [/underlined]
Aircraft – NF 934 Code "G". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlare [sic]
Flying Time – 2 Hours 55 Minutes
722 Aircraft – 388 Lancasters, 289 Halifax; 45 Mosquito – 531 aircraft to CAP GRIS NEZ (4 Targets) and 191 aircraft to 3 Targets in CALAIS. Accurate and intense bombing of all targets.
1 Lancaster lost
[underlined] 28/09/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 4 (Daylight). Target [underlined] CALAIS [/underlined]
Aircraft – PD277 Code "A". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 2 Hours 35 Minutes
341 Aircraft – 222 Lancasters; 84 Halifax; 35 Moquito. [sic] Target area covered in cloud but Master Bomber brought the force below cloud to bomb visually. Bombing was accurate.
1 Lancaster Lost
[underlined] 14/10/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 5 (Daylight). Target [underlined] DUISBURG [/underlined]
Aircraft – NF 934 Code "G". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 4 Hours 5 Minutes
This raid was part of a special operation. (See page 601 of Bomber Command Diaries)
1013 Aircraft – 519 Lancasters; 474 Halifax; 20 Mosquito with RAF fighters escorting.
3574 Tons of HE & 820 Tons of incendiary.
13 Lancasters & 1 Halifax lost.
[underlined] 15/10/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 6 (Night time). Target [underlined] WILHEMSHAVEN [sic] [/underlined]
Aircraft ? Code "C". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 4 Hours
506 Aircraft – 257 Halifax; 241 Lancasters; 8 Mosquito.
Last of 14 Major raids on Port of Wilhemshaven [sic]. Bomber Command claimed "severe damage caused."
No record of any losses noted.
[underlined] 19/10/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 7 (Night time). Target [underlined] STUTTGART [/underlined]
Aircraft – NF 934 Code "G". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 6 Hours 30 Minutes
565 Lancasters & 18 Mosquito in 2 forces 4 hours apart.
Serious damage caused to central and eastern districts (including BOSCH factory)
6 Lancasters lost.
[underlined] 23/10/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No. 8 (Night time). Target [underlined] ESSEN [/underlined]
Aircraft – NF 934 Code "G". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 5 Hours 5 Minutes
1055 Aircraft – 561 Lancasters; 463 Halifax & 31 Mosquito. This was the heaviest raid on Essen so far in the war and the number of aircraft also the greatest number on any target. (These results achieved [underlined] without [/underlined] the Lancasters from 5 Group!! 4538 Tons of Bombs dropped.
[underlined] 29/10/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 9 (Daylight). Target [underlined] WESTKAPELLE (WALCHEREN) [/underlined]
Aircraft – NF 934 Code "G". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 2 Hours 15 Minutes
358 Aircraft – 194 Lancasters; 128 Halifax & 36 Mosquito.
11 different ground positions attacked. Visibility was good and results were accurate.
1 Lancaster lost.
47
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[underlined] 04/11/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 10 (Daylight). Target [underlined] SOLINGEN [/underlined]
Aircraft – NF 934 Code "G". Pilot – Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 4 Hours 30 Minutes
176 Lancasters of 3 Group. The raid was not considered successful as bombing scattered.
4 Lancasters lost
Note: Aircraft NF934 Code "G" went "missing" on 12/12/1944
Squadron Leader N.G. Macfarlane promoted to Wing Commander and posted as Officer Commanding No: XV Squadron RAF Mildenhall in mid-November and sends aircraft to fetch whole crew from Methwold
[underlined] NO: XV SQUADRON RAF MILDENHALL Aircraft letters "LS" [/underlined]
[underlined] 28/11/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 11 (Night time). Target [underlined] NEUSS (DUSSELDORF) [/underlined]
Aircraft – HK 695 Code "V". Pilot – Wing Commander N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 4 Hours 40 Minutes
145 Lancasters of 3 Group & 8 of 1 Group. GH Bombing attack. Modest damage.
No losses.
[underlined] 05/12/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 12 (Daylight). Target [underlined] SCHWAMMENAUEL DAM [/underlined]
Aircraft – ME 844 Code "C. Pilot – Wing Commander N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 4 Hours 40 Minutes
MASTER BOMBER – 56 Lancasters of 3 Group attempt to "Blow up" this Dam on river ROER to help American Army. Target covered in cloud. Only 2 aircraft bombed. No losses.
[underlined] 06/12/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 13 (Night time) Target [underlined] LEUNA MERSEBURG [/underlined] (Near LEIPZIG)
Aircraft – NG 357 Code "K" Pilot – Flt. Lt. Percy
Flying Time – 7 Hours 20 Minutes
475 Lancasters bombed Oil Target in Eastern Germany, 500 miles from UK. Cloud cover but considerable damage to the synthetic oil plant. 5 aircraft lost
[underlined] 08/12/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 14 (Daylight). Target [underlined] DUISBURG [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 357 Code "K". Pilot – Flt. Lt. Percy
Flying Time – 4 Hours 20 Minutes
163 Lancasters of 3 Group bombed on GH through cloud on railway yards. Good results.
No losses.
[underlined] 14/12/1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 15 (Night time). Target [underlined] MINING KATTEGAT [/underlined] (off KULLEN POINT)
Aircraft – NG 357 Code "K". Pilot – Flt. Lt. Percy
Flying Time – 7 Hours (Landed LOSSIEMOUTH)
30 Lancasters & 9 Halifax. Mines accurately laid. (see H2S photo) Diverted to Lossiemouth on return. No losses.
[underlined] 28/12//1944 [/underlined] Sortie No: 16 (Daylight). Target [underlined] COLOGNE [/underlined] (GREMBERG)
Aircraft – HK 693 Code "B". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 4 Hours 50 Minutes
167 Lancasters of 3 Group. Marshalling yards. Accurate bombing. No losses
[underlined] 01/01/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 17 (Night time). Target [underlined] VOHWINKEL [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 6 Hours 5 Minutes
146 Lancasters of 3 Group. Successful attack on railway yards. 1 aircraft lost
[underlined] 03/01/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 18 (Daytime). Target [underlined] DORTMUND [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 4 Hours 45 Minutes
99 Lancasters of 3 group. GH attacks through cloud on Coking plant (HANSA). Accurate bombing. 1 aircraft lost.
[underlined] 07-08/01/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 19 (Night time). Target [underlined] MUNICH [/underlined]
Aircraft – HK 618 Code "G". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 7 Hours 45 Minutes
645 Lancasters from 1,3, 5, 6 & 8 Groups – Very successful raid causing severe damage (see Terry's book – "Fliegeralarm" – Luftangriffe auf München 1940-1945)
11 aircraft lost and 4 crash in France
[underlined] 13/01/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 20 (Daylight). Target [underlined] SAARBRUCKENt [/underlined][sic]
Aircraft – ME 849 Code "L". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 6 Hours 20 Minutes
158 Lancasters of 3 Group attack Railway yards. Accurate but some overshooting
Divert to Predannack on return because of bad weather at base.
1 Aircraft lost
48
[page break]
[underlined] 16-17/01/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 21 (Night time). Target [underlined] WANNE EICKEL [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 5 Hours 5 Minutes
138 Lancasters of 3 Group attack Benzol plant. 1 Aircraft lost
[underlined] 23/01/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 22 (Daylight). Target [underlined] COLOGNE [/underlined] (GREMBERG)
Aircraft – PD 234 Code "E". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 5 Hours 55 Minutes
153 Lancasters from 3 Group attack Railway Yards. Good Visibility – Results variable
3 aircraft lost and 1 crashed in France
[underlined] 09/02/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 23 (Night time). Target [underlined] HOHENBUDBERG (DUISBERG KREFELD) [/underlined]
Aircraft – PD 234 Code "E". Pilot – Wing Commander N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 5 Hours 10 Minutes
151 Lancasters from 3 Group attack Railway Yards. 2 Lancasters lost
[underlined] 19/02/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 24 (Daylight). Target [underlined] WESEL [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 444 Code "Y". Pilot – Wing Commander N.G. Macfarlane
Flying Time – 5 Hours 15 Minutes
168 Lancasters from 3 Group. Good attack with best results around railway area
Leading Aircraft for whole of 3 Group. (I navigated and everyone else followed me!)
1 Lancaster lost
[underlined] 02/03/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 25 (Daylight). Target [underlined] COLOGNE [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 5 Hours 30 Minutes
858 Aircraft – 155 Lancasters from 3 Group. Only 15 aircraft from 3 Group bombed because of GH failure. All other bombing highly destructive. Cologne captured by the Americans 4 days later. 6 Lancasters lost
[underlined] 04/03/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 26 (Daylight). Target [underlined] WANNE EINCKEL [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 4 Hours 55 Minutes
128 Lancasters from 3 Group bombed on GH. No losses.
[underlined] 05/03/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 27 (Daylight). Target [underlined] GELSENKIRCHEN [/underlines]
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 5 Hours 35 Minutes
170 Lancasters from 3 Group. Leading Aircraft for whole of 3 Group.
1 Lancaster lost
[underlined] 11/03/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 28 (Daylight). Target [underlined] ESSEN [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 6 Hours 5 Minutes
1079 Aircraft – 750 Lancasters. Attack accurate and Essen paralysed.
Leading aircraft for 32 Base. 3 Lancasters lost
[underlined] 22/03/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 29 (Daylight). Target [underlined] BOCHULT [/underlined]
Aircraft – PA 235 Code "E". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 5 Hours 15 Minutes
100 Lancasters from 3 Group. Leading aircraft for Squadron. Town seen to be on fire.
No losses
[underlined] 23/03/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 30 (Daylight). Target [underlined] WESEL [/underlined]
Aircraft – PA 235 Code "E". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 4 Hours 35 Minutes
Special GH attack to support Rhine crossing. 80 Lancasters from 3 Group.
Signal from General Eisenhower congratulating the crews concerned on their very accurate bombing.
[underlined] 29/03/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 31 (Daylight). Target [underlined] HALLENDORF [/underlined] (SALZGITTER)
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 7 Hours 5 Minutes
130 Lancasters from 3 Group. Attack on Benzol plant using GH. Leading aircraft for Squadron.
No losses
[underlined] 9-10/04/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 32 (Night time). Target [underlined] KIEL BAY [/underlined] – MINING
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 6 Hours 10 Minutes
70 Lancasters. No loss on Mining but 4 lost on main raid on Kiel (Very accurate - Pocket Battleship Admiral Scheer hit and capsized. Admiral Hipper Emden badly damaged.)
49
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[underlined] 14//04/1945 [/underlined] Sortie No: 33 (Night time). Target [underlined] POTSDAM [/underlined]
Aircraft – NG 358 Code "H". Pilot – Squadron Leader Percy
Flying Time – 8 Hours 35 Minutes
500 Lancasters. Attack successful and severe damage caused
1 Lancaster lost to night fighter.
Tour completed because the tour requirement was reduced from 40 to 30 whilst we were over Potsdam.
References Air 27 1352 (218 Sqn)
Air 27 204 & 205 (XV Sqn)
[photograph]
End of Tour, Mildenhall, April 1945
Lancaster "H" Howe, NG538
L-R: P/O Johnny Forster (flight engineer), Flt Sgt Jimmy Bourke (mid-upper gunner),
Ft Sgt 'Nobby' Clarke (rear gunner), Sqn Ldr Pat "Tojo" Percy (pilot), Flt Sgt Dennis "Napper" Evans (wireless op.)
F/O Tom Butler (bomb aimer), F/O Dennis Moore (navigator)
[photograph)
End of Tour, Mildenhall, April 1945
Lancaster "H" Howe, NG538
Squadron Leader Percy & Crew with ground crew
50
[page break]
1945 Appendix II
[underlined] Lancaster NG 358 Mark B1. XV Squadron (15) Coded LS-H [/underlined]
This aircraft was built by Armstrong Whitworth at their Baginton factory and was one of 400 delivered to the RAF between July 1944 & February 1945. The previous LS-H was HK 648 and NG 358 first appeared on the squadron in Mid-December 1944. It was finally 'Struck off charge' on 19/10/1945
[photograph]
Dates actually flown in this aircraft:
30/12/1944 Day 1450 'GH' Bombing Exercise
1-2/01/1945 Night 1610 6.05 VOHWINKEL 146 a/c, 3 missing
03/01/1945 Day 1250 4.45 DORTMUND 50 a/c
16-17/01/1945 Night 2307 5.05 WANNE EINCKEL 138 a/c, 1 missing
27/01/1945 Day 1005 Air Test
02/03/1945 Day 1200 5.30 KÖLN Led 32 BASE, 531 a/c, 6 missing
04/03/1945 Day 0946 4.45 WANNE EINCKEL 128 a/c
05/03/1945 Day 0940 5.35 GELSENKIRCHEN Led 3 Group, 170 a/c, 1 missing
11/03/1945 Day 1200 6.05 ESSEN Led 32 BASE, 750 a/c, 3 missing
29/03/1945 Day 1230 7.05 HALLENDORF Led SQUADRON, 130 a/c
09-10/04/1945 Night 2000 6.10 KIEL BAY MINING 70 a/c
14-15/04/1945 Night 1825 8.55 BERLIN (POTSDAM) 500 a/c, 2 missing
The crew of 'H' – 'HOWE' on the above flights was:
Pilot Squadron Leader Pat Percy
Navigator Flying Officer Dennis Moore
Bomb Aimer Flying Officer Tom Butler (Canadian)
F/Engineer Pilot Officer Johnnie Forster
Wireless Op. F/Sgt. Dennis Evans
Mid Upper F/Sgt. Jimmy Bourke
Rear Gunner F/Sgt. Nobby Clarke
Other 'operations' in other aircraft were flown with Wing Commander N.G. Macfarlane as Pilot. (see note below)
51
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[underlined] Explanations: [/underlined]
Bomber Command was split into GROUPS (mainly 3 & 5 Group) – each Group split into 3 BASES and each Base comprised 2 or 3 airfields on which there were usually 2 SQUADRONS. Each Squadron was normally split in two FLIGHTS although sometimes they had three. 3 Group Base were Nos. 31; 32 & 33. 31 Base comprised STRADISHALL & WRATTING COMMON plus one other; 32 Base comprised MILDENHALL, LAKENHEATH & METHWOLD. 33 Base comprised WATERBEACH, WITCHFORD & MEPAL. The other Squadron at MILDENHALL at this time was No 622 (Australian). Each Squadron normally had 24 aircraft and a 'MAXIMUM EFFORT' was achieved when all of them flew on an OPERATION ('op').
All daylight trips were in tight FORMATION and Bombing was done on 'GH' – which was operated by the navigator who actually 'pressed the button'. The Bombing Leaders were distinguished by the double yellow bars on the tailfin/rudder. All others in the flight bombed on the Leader. A limited number of Squadrons & Aircraft in No 3 Group were fitted with this equipment, which was extremely accurate.
Note. Mac (or Nigel, as I now am allowed to call him) lives in a retirement home near Capetown, South Africa. At the Mildenhall register meeting in May 1995 I was told he had died. The following day I was able to contact his son Ian (whom we had 'baby-sat') who is now a Harley Street Consultant and he put paid to this rumour.
Nigel & Margaret visited the UK June 2000 to celebrate their 60th Wedding Anniversary and Pam & I were invited to their Party. Not able to drive at the time so unable to go. Terry offered to pick him up and take him with us to Squadron 85th Birthday celebrations at Lossiemouth. Unfortunately he was not well enough so Terry & I went to Lossiemouth on our own.
1945 Appendix III
[italics] The Operational Sortie which the crew decided had turned me from being a "very Good" Navigator into an "ACE" Navigator. (Their words - not mine!!) [/italics]
An operational order was "posted" quite early in the morning of the 7th January 1945 and the fuel load was 2154 gallons (the maximum) so we all knew that we were in for a long haul. At the pre-flight briefing Munich was announced as the target and we were allocated HK618 "G" (George) with Squadron Leader Percy as pilot. We learned later that 645 aircraft from 1;3;5;6 and 8 Groups loaded with 1 x 4000 pounder (Cookie) and clusters of incendiaries, carried out a very successful bombing raid causing very severe damage. (See photos in Terry's book). A total of 11 aircraft were lost and another 4 crashed in France (nearly 3%, which was quite high at this time).
Getting airborne at 1830, the flight out was quite uneventful from a navigational point of view with 'Gee' working well and covering a good way down into France. Having bombed on a well lit (burning) target, the Alps were now the only visible landmarks and, at the appropriate time, we turned onto a northerly heading based on the wind component calculated on the way down across France. We kept going on this heading, expecting to pick up something to give us a 'fix' but unfortunately nothing was forthcoming, and at the ETA at the French coast I asked if any of the crew could see anything. Nobody else could see through the cloud but the rear gunner (who had a good downward view) finally called to say that we had just passed over a 'Pundit' flashing what turned out to be Manston!! Quickly turning on the IFF (identifying friend not foe) and crossing the Thames estuary, a quick calculation, the message" Maintain heading – ETA base in 17 minutes" was passed to the pilot. EXACTLY 17 minutes later the pilot reported "overhead base – joining circuit. Well done Navigator" Thus ended a 7hour 45 minute flight and the very tired but elated crew gathered in the briefing room to be met, as usual, by the padre dishing out the rum ration for those that wanted it. I was quite happy to have my share while we were being de-briefed, with a crew enthusing over my marvellous navigation (all the way back from the south of France without having to change heading once!!) and then off to the quarters behind the Mess to a well earned sleep.
What was never mentioned to anyone – and the crew in particular – was that, had the heading been just ONE degree to starboard, we would have gone sailing – literally – up the north sea and, because of the cloud cover, not know why we never made it back to base – if we had survived the ditching in the dark and subsequent days adrift in the North Sea – that is!!!
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1945 Appendix IV
[underlined] Dakota Flights (as Navigator) July 1945 – May 1946 [/underlined]
109 OTU Crosby on Eden
08/07/1945 – 23/07/1945 DAY 18.55, NIGHT 7.45
PILOTS: Flt/Lt Mason & Flt/Lt Samuael
Aircraft registrations: FZ609 KG502 KG619 KG658 KG664 KG666
B Flight 1383T/C.U
26/07/1945 – 27/08/1945 DAY 49.55, NIGHT 26.15
PILOTS: P/O Zygnerski & Flt/Lt Herringe
Aircraft registrations: FL652 KG373 KG392 KG638 KG726 KG644 KG649 KG657 KG726
52 Squadron RAF DUM-DUM CALCUTTA
01/12/1945 – 08/05/1946 DAY 345.25, NIGHT 13.50
PILOTS: Mainly F/O Harris but also Flt/Lt Ruddle, F/O Lofting, Flt/Lt Earwalker & F/O MacArthur
Route flying from Calcutta to Bangkok, Saigon (Ho Chi Minh), Hong Kong, sometimes calling into Chittagong, Meiktila, Hmawbi, Rangoon, Canton
Aircraft registrations:
FL507 FL612 KG212 KG502 KG573 KG923
KJ813 KJ814 KJ820 KJ904 KJ963 KK190
KN211 KN219 KN231 KN239 KN240 KN299
KN301 KN308 KN341 KL507 KN534 KN573
KN600 KN604 KN630 KN633 KP211
Total Hours: DAY 413.35 NIGHT 47.10
Appendix 1949
[underlined] "Lancastrian" G – AGWI/1281/TX276/111 [/underlined]
I flew 13 Sorties as Navigator in this Aircraft on the Berlin Airlift.
Registered 28/11/1945 to Ministry of Aircraft Production.
Certificate of Airworthiness No: 7283 24/01/1946.
Delivered to BSAA (British South American Airways) Heathrow 27/01/1946
Named 'Star Land'
Registered to Ministry of Civil Aviation 16/08/1948.
Sold to Flight Refuelling Ltd. 16/01/1949 and Registered to them 18/01/1949.
Allotted Fleet No. 'Tanker 26' and flew [underlined] 226 [/underlined] Sorties on Berlin Airlift
Scrapped at Tarrant Ruston 26/09/1951.
Berlin Airlift
[logo] Berlin Airlift [emblem]
[drawing]
[inserted] TX 276/1281 [/inserted]
AVRO LANCASTRIAN – FLIGHT REFUELLING LTD
47403
On 23 June 1948, the Soviet forces occupying the eastern part of Germany blockaded all rail, road and waterway supply routes from the Allied Western Occupation Zones in Berlin. With less than one month’s supply of food and fuel, the prospects for the two and a half million Berliners looked bleak. Only three severely restricted air routes remained as a lifeline between the besieged city and the western world. The Allies responded immediately with a miracle of logistics – The Berlin Airlift. Codenamed Operation Vittles by the USAF, and Operation Plainfare by the RAF, over a period of 11 months Allied aircraft made thousands of flights into the cramped airspace of Berlin and succeeded in supplying everything the city needed. Every available aircraft from RAF Transport Command was in service, as well as hundreds of USAF aircraft and even civil charter firms were called upon to supplement the effort. The operation became so skilled that the Soviet Command eventually realised that they had failed and on 12 May 1949 the blockade was finally lifted.
Avro Lancastrian G-AGWI represents an aircraft which was originally delivered to British South American Airways (BSAA) at Heathrow in January 1946. The aircraft was registered to the Ministry of Civil Aviation for a short period in 1948 before being sold to Flight Refuelling in January 1949. The aircraft was then allotted fleet no. Tanker 26 and flew 226 sorties on the Berlin Airlift.
[inserted] I FLEW IN 13 OF THEM [/inserted] [diagram]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Dennis Moore Autobiography
Description
An account of the resource
Dennis Moore's autobiography, compiled and edited by his son, Terry Moore.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Dennis Moore
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
53 typed sheets
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
BMooreDMooreDv1
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
Germany--Weeze
England--London
England--Wallington Garden
Netherlands--Zandvoort
England--Croydon
England--Hartland
England--Lynton
England--Salcombe
England--Amersham
England--Newquay
England--Manchester
Scotland--Greenock
United States
New York (State)--New York
Canada
New Brunswick--Moncton
Maine--Portland
New Brunswick--Shediac
New Brunswick--Fredericton
Manitoba
Manitoba--Brandon
Manitoba--Winnipeg
Ontario--Toronto
Ontario--Hamilton
Ontario--London
Alberta--Medicine Hat
England--Harrogate
Scotland--Stranraer
France--Angers
Germany--Neuss
England--Carlisle
England--Morecambe
Pakistan--Karachi
Malta
Egypt--Cairo
Burma--Rangoon
India--Mumbai
China--Guangzhou
China--Hainan Sheng
China--Hong Kong
India--Darjeeling
England--Liverpool
England--Hastings
Kenya--Nairobi
Italy--Verona
Morocco--Marrakech
Northern Ireland--Belfast
Senegal--Dakar
Brazil--Natal
Argentina--Buenos Aires
Turkey--İzmir
Israel
Newfoundland and Labrador--Gander
Greenland
Iceland
Cyprus--Nicosia
Iraq--Baghdad
Bahrain
England--Blandford Forum
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Hamburg
England--Skellow
England--Worcester
England--Scarborough
England--Pershore
Arizona--Tucson
California--Vandenberg Air Force Base
England--Diss
England--Chelmsford
England--Basildon
England--St. Albans
England--Slough
England--Letchworth
England--Stevenage
France--Calais
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Essen
Netherlands--Walcheren
Germany--Solingen
Germany--Leipzig
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Munich
Germany--Wanne-Eickel
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Bocholt
Germany--Salzgitter
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Potsdam
England--Coventry
England--London
Germany--Wuppertal
Germany--Saarbrücken
Québec--Montréal
India--Kolkata
Germany--Wesel (North Rhine-Westphalia)
Vietnam--Ho Chi Minh City
England--Southend-on-Sea
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
Italy
France
Arizona
California
Maine
New York (State)
Egypt
Ontario
Québec
New Brunswick
Alberta
Newfoundland and Labrador
Germany
Brazil
Burma
China
Cyprus
India
Iraq
Kenya
Netherlands
Pakistan
Turkey
Great Britain
Vietnam
Senegal
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Berkshire
England--Buckinghamshire
England--Cornwall (County)
England--Cumberland
England--Devon
England--Essex
England--Herefordshire
England--Kent
England--Lancashire
England--Norfolk
England--Northumberland
England--Sussex
England--Worcestershire
England--Yorkshire
England--Warwickshire
England--London
Atlantic Ocean--Kattegat (Baltic Sea)
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Sue Smith
12 OTU
15 Squadron
1653 HCU
218 Squadron
3 Group
5 Group
52 Squadron
6 Group
8 Group
82 Squadron
90 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
air gunner
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
arts and crafts
bomb aimer
C-47
crewing up
Distinguished Flying Cross
Distinguished Service Order
entertainment
flight engineer
Gee
ground crew
H2S
Halifax
Hampden
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
Heavy Conversion Unit
Initial Training Wing
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
Lancastrian
Lincoln
Master Bomber
memorial
mess
Meteor
mine laying
Mosquito
navigator
Nissen hut
Oboe
Operational Training Unit
pilot
Proctor
RAF Bridgnorth
RAF Catterick
RAF Chedburgh
RAF Chipping Warden
RAF Farnborough
RAF Feltwell
RAF Honington
RAF Lakenheath
RAF Lindholme
RAF Lossiemouth
RAF Mepal
RAF Methwold
RAF Mildenhall
RAF Shawbury
RAF Shepherds Grove
RAF Stradishall
RAF Thorney Island
RAF Tuddenham
RAF Waterbeach
RAF Wigtown
RAF Witchford
RAF Wratting Common
Shackleton
Spitfire
Stirling
Sunderland
Tiger force
Tiger Moth
training
V-1
V-weapon
Wellington
wireless operator
York
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Moore, Dennis
D Moore
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2015-05-06
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Moore, D
Description
An account of the resource
37 items and two albums.
The collection concerns (1923 - 2010, 1603117, 153623 Royal Air Force) and contains his log books, documents, photographs and two albums. He flew operations as a navigator with 218 and 15 Squadrons.
Album one contains photographs of his family and his training in Canada.
Album Two contains photographs of his service in the Far East.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Terrence D Moore and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
1 17/9/44 BOULOGNE
762 A/C. 370 Lancs. 351 Halifax 41 Mossies
Dropped more than 3000 tons of Bombs on German positions around Boulogne in preparation for an attack by Allied Troops. The German Garrison surrendered soon afterwards (1 Halifax & 1 Lancaster lost)
2 23/24 NEUSS
549 a/c. 378 Lancs 154 Halifax & 17 Mossies
Most of the bombing fell in the dock & factory area. A short local report only says that 617 Houses/14 Public Buildings wer [sic] destroyed and 289 people killed/150 injured. 5 Lancs & 2 Halifax lost
3 26/9/44 CAP GRIS NEZ
722 A/C 388 Lancaster 289 Halifax & 45 Mossies
- 531 aircraft to CAP GRIS NEZ (4 targets) and 191 a/c. to 3 targets in CALAIS. Accurate and intense bombing of all targets. 1 Lancaster lost.
4 28/9/44 CALAIS.
341 a/c. 222 Lancasters. 84 Halifax & 35 Mossies
Target area covered in cloud but Marker Bomber brought the force below cloud to bomb visually. Bombing was accurate. 1 Lancaster lost
5 14/10/44 DUISBERG.
This raid was part of a special operation (See page 601 of BC. [indecipherable word].
1013 A/C. 519 Lancaster, 474 Halifaxes 20 Mosquitos with RAF fighters escorting. 3574 Tons of HE & 820 Tons incendiary. 13 Lancasters 1 Halifax Lost
6 15/16/10/44 WILHEMSHAVEN
506 A/C. 257 Halifax, 241 Lancasters 8 Mossies
Last of 14 major raid on [inserted] PORT of [/inserted] WILHEMSHAVEN – Bomber Command claimed “Severe damage” caused.
7 19/10/44 STUTTGART
565 Lancasters 18 Mossies in 2 forces 4 Hours apart. 6 Lancasters lost. Serious damage caused to central and Eastern districts (including BOSCH factory)
[page break]
8 23/24 Oct 1944 ESSEN
1055 A/C. 561 Lancasters 463 Halifax and 31 Mossies. 5 Lancs and 3 Halifax lost.
This was the heaviest raid on ESSEN so far in the war and the number of A/C also the greatest number to any target (These records achieved [underlined] without [/underlined] Lancs of 5 Group!! 4538 Tons of Bombs dropped.
9 29/10 WALCHEREN (West Kapelle)
358 A/C. 194 Lancs, 128 H & 36 Mos.
1 Lancaster lost. 11 different ground positions attacked. Visibility was good and results were accurate.
10 4/11 SOLINGEN
176 Lancs of 3 Group – 4 Lost. The raid was not considered successful as bombing scattered.
11 28/11 NEUSS.
145 Lancs of 3 Group & 8 of 1 Group GH attack. – None lost. Modest damage.
12 5/12 SCHWAMMENVAL DAM.
“MASTER BOMBER” 56 Lancaster of 3 Group attempt Dam on River Roer [sic] (Rur) to help American Army – Cloud cover only 2 a/c Bombed – No losses
13 6/[deleted] 7 [/deleted] [inserted] 12 [/inserted] [deleted] Nov [/deleted] LEUNA (MERSEBERG)
475 Lancs (5 Lost) – Oil target in Eastern Germany 500 miles from UK. – Cloud cover But considerable damage to the Synthetic oil plant
14 8 [deleted] Nov [/deleted] [inserted] DEC [/inserted] DUISBERG
163 Lancaster of 3 Gp. GH through cloud on Railway Yards. – Good results – No loss
15 14/15 [deleted] Nov [/deleted] [inserted] DEC. [/inserted] MINING KATTEGAT.
30 Lancasters + 9 Halifax – No loss – Diverted Lossiemouth
16 28 December COLOGNE (GREMBERG)
167 Lancs. of 3 Gp. – Marshalling Yards – Accurate Bombing No Loss
[page break]
17 1/2 JANUARY 1945 VOHWINKEL.
146 a/c of 3 Gp. Successful attack on Railway yards. 1 Lost.
18 3/1 DORTMUND.
99 Lancs of 3 Gp. GH attacks through cloud on COKING Plant (HANSA) – Accurate Bombing – 1 Lost
19 7/8 January MUNICH
645 Lancs with 1, 3, 5, 6 8 Gps. 11 Lost and 4 crash in France. – Very successful and severe Damage (TERRY has BOOK)
20 13/[deleted] [indecipherable number] [/deleted] SAARBRUCKEN
[deleted] 2 [/deleted] 158 Lancs. of 3 Gp. attack Railway yards. Accurate but some overshooting – 1 Lost (Divert Dredannock)
21 16/17 Jan. WANNE EICKEL.
138 Lancs 3 Gp. attack Benzol plant – 1 Lost.
22 28 Jan COLOGNE/GREMBERG
153 Lancs 3 Gp. Attack on Railway Yard Good visibility – Result variable. 3 Lost and 1 crash in France.
23 9/2 45 KREFELD (HOHENBUDBERG).
151 Lancs of 3 Gp Attack Railway yards 2 Lancs Lost
24 19/2 WESEL.
168 Lancs of 3 Gp. – Good attack with best concentration around Railway area. (Leading a/c for whole GROUP (ie “In Front”) 1 Lost
25 2/3 COLOGNE
858 A/C. – 155 Lancs 3 Gp. – only 15 of 3 Gp Bombed because of GH Failure – Others highly destructive. 6 Lancs lost – Cologne captured by Americans 4 days later.
26 4/3 WANNE EICKEL.
128 Lancs 3 Gp. – GH. – No loss.
27 5/3 GELSENKIRCHEN
170 Lancs 3 Gp – GH – Led Group (‘In Front again)! 1 Lancaster lost.
[page break]
28 11/3. ESSEN (Led Base)
1079 a/c (750 Lancs). 3 Lancs lost Attack accurate and ESSEN paralysed
29 22/3. BOCHULT
100 Lancs 3 Gp. G-H. – Town on Fire No Loss. Led Squadron.
30 23/3. WESEL.
Special GH Attack – 80 Lancs 3 Gp. – No Losses. (Signal from EISEHOWER) [sic]
31 29/3 HALLENDORF (SALZGITTER)
130 Lancs 3 Gp. G-H on Benzol Plant. Led Squadron. No loss
32 9/10 April. KIEL BAY MINING.
70 Lancs – No Loss on Mining but 4 lost on Main Raid on KIEL (very accurate) Pocket Battle Ship Admiral Scheer hit and capsized Admiral Hipper & tender badley [sic] damaged.
33 [deleted] 14/April [/deleted] 14/15 April POTSDAM
500 Lancs – 1 Lost to night fighter Attack successful and severe damage caused
[symbol] END
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Dennis Moore's Operational Record
Description
An account of the resource
A list of the 33 operations undertaken by Dennis from 17 September 1944 to 15 April 1945. Each operation has a small description of the task.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Dennis Moore
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Four handwritten sheets
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SMooreD1603117v10021, SMooreD1603117v10022, SMooreD1603117v10023, SMooreD1603117v10024
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Germany--Neuss
France--Calais
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Essen
Netherlands--Walcheren
Germany--Solingen
Germany--Leuna
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Munich
Germany--Wanne-Eickel
Germany--Krefeld
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Bocholt
Germany--Salzgitter
Germany--Kiel Region
Germany--Potsdam
Germany--Wuppertal
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Saarbrücken
Germany--Wesel (North Rhine-Westphalia)
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France
Germany
Netherlands
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Atlantic Ocean--Kattegat (Baltic Sea)
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
1 Group
3 Group
5 Group
6 Group
8 Group
bombing
Halifax
Lancaster
Master Bomber
mine laying
Mosquito
RAF Lossiemouth
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/194/27209/MAdamsHG424504-170215-01.2.pdf
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Adams, Herbert
Herbert Adams
H Adams
Herbert G Adams
Description
An account of the resource
88 items. Collection concerns Herbert George Adams DFC, Legion d'Honour (b. 1924, 424509 Royal Australian Air Force). He flew operations as a navigator with 467 Squadron. Collection contains an oral history interview, photographs of people and places, several memoirs about his training and bombing operations, letters to his family, his flying logbook and notes on navigation.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Herbert Adams and catalogued by Nigel Huckins and Trevor Hardcastle.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-02-15
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Adams, HG
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[inserted] (There is some duplication of notes for Ops [symbol] 1 to [symbol] 14 as I wrote something at different times (years apart.)) [/inserted]
[inserted] [symbol] Soon after we feathered that engine over “A” Flight commander flew up on our wing top & feathered 3 engines & kept up with us! He was giving us some assurance that a lightly loaded Lancaster could fly level (for a while) on 1 engine … reassurance for a new crew [/inserted]
My navigation Logs & Charts of our operations with 467 (RAAF) Squadron at Waddington, near Lincoln, from 10.9.44 to 16.1.45, with extracts from a publication giving some details of every operation by 467 & 463 Squadrons from 10.9.44 to 25.4.45.
[circled 1] [underlined] LE HAVRE, 10.9.44 [/underlined] 21 from 467, 20 from 463 as part of 992 bombers on 8 different German strong points outside of Le Havre. The targets were accurately marked and bombed, with no losses from Waddington. We took off at 1522, flew to Syerston (nearby), then did a radius of action on a track of 260oT so as to be back at Syerston at 1604 at 8000’. The winds were about what was forecast, 025/15; we bombed at 1723 at 12100’, bomb load was 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500 lb H.E. Two minutes after we dropped our bombs our Port Outer motor stopped (stray AA – fire?), we feathered the prop & flew home OK on 3 engines, airborne for 3h 55 min.
[symbol] On 11.9.44, 218 bombers from 5 Group attacked the German positions still holding out at Le Havre, with no losses. 2 British divisions were attacking Le Havre & the German garrison surrendered a few hours after the raid. The British wished to capture the port intact, but the German garrison had laid mines, and blown up most of the docks, and so it was several weeks before the port could be used.
DAMSTADT, 11.9.44. 226 Lancasters from 5 Group bombed at night, losing 1 crew (all K.I.A.) from 463 Sqdn. Our pilot, Peter Gray-Buchanan, did his “Second Dickie” on this raid.
[circled 2] [underlined] STUTTGART, 12.9.44. [/underlined] 20 from 467, 14 from 463, of 204 from [underlined] 5 Group [/underlined]. (On the same night 378 Lancasters bombed Frankfurt with success.) Post-war, a German expert – Heinz Bardau – wrote that the northern & western parts of Stuttgart city were erased in this concentrated attack… a [underlined] fire-storm resulted [/underlined], with 1171 people killed, the city’s highest fatality figure for the war.
[page break]
STUTTGART (Con’t)
467 Sqdn lost 2 crews (F/L D. Brown, 5 KIA, 2 POW, F/O Bright. 5 KIA, 2 POW.)
We took off at 1916 & set course at 1919, staying at 2500’ until 2137 when we began climbing, to 16000’ by 2233. Our last GEE fix was at 2232 and the next (after bombing OK at 2316) at 0022… so nearly 2 hours of Dead Reckoning with some map reading. (The Germans jammed our GEE receiver so that the screen was filled with “Grass”). The actual winds were about as forecast 160/15 at the target. Our bomb load was 1 x 4000 lb “cookie” & 13 J clusters (of incendiaries). Two minutes after bombing our gunners saw a fighter (they think a Do217) at about 400 yards, so we began to “corkscrew”. We continued corkscrewing until 2329, seeing one plane (unidentified) at about 50 yards! and another with a light on (!). We were airborne for 6h 51 min.
[circled 3] [underlined] BOULOGNE. 17.9.44. [/underlined] We took off at 0806 & flew to Syerston, then did a Radius of Action (on track of 260oT) to return to Syerston at 0837 at 6000’, where we did a circuit to port to lose height & get into formation at 3000! We had an uneventual [sic] trip to the target where we bombed at 8100’, dropping 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500 lb. We were airborne for 3h 26 min. 19 Lancs from each of 467 & 463 joined 762 bombers dropping more than 3000 tons of H.E. bombs on German positions around Bologne in preparation for an attack by Allied troops. The German garrison surrendered soon after the raid.
[circled 4] [underlined] BREMERHAVEN 18.9.44. [/underlined] 19 Lancs from each of 467 & 463 were part of a total of [underlined] 206 from 5 Group [/underlined], with no losses from Waddington. The post-war assessors found that this 5-Group attack, with less than 900 tons of bombs, started a [underlined] fire-storm [/underlined] which destroyed 2750 buildings in the main port area, & that [underlined] 30000 [/underlined] people were made homeless & had to live in the open until evacuated several days later.
[page break]
Extracts from a publication giving some details of every wartime operation by 467 & 463 Squadrons (loaned by Sam Nelson) RED = Daylight. BLACK = Night BLUE = We weren’t on it.
[circled 1] 10-9-44 LE HAVRE 21 from 467, 20 from 463 as part of 992 bomber raid on 8 different German strongpoints outside Le Havre. The targets were accurately marked and bombed. No losses.
D. 3h 55m. 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500. 12000’ (We lost P.O. engine during bomb-run).
Day 11-9-44. LE HAVRE. 218 bombers from 5 Group attacked German positions still holding out at Le Havre. Two British divisions were now attacking Le Havre and the German garrison surrendered a few hours later. The British wished to capture the port intact as a supply port for the armies, but the German garrison had proved spiteful – they had mined and blown up most of the docks, and it was a number of weeks before the port could be used.
[inserted] Night [/inserted] 11-9-44 DAMSTADT. 226 Lancasters of 5 Group.
Our pilot (Peter Gray-Buchanan) did his “second dickie”. 1 A/C from 463 lost (7 KIA).
[circled 2] 12-9-44 STUTTGART. 20 of 467, 14 of 463, of 204 from 5 Group. (Same night 378 Lancasters on Frankfurt … with success.) Post war, a German expert, Heinz Bardau, wrote that the Northern + Western parts of the city were erased in this concentrated attack, & that a fire-storm resulted … 1171 people killed. Stuttgart’s highest fatality figure for the war. 467 lost 2 crews: F/L D. Brown .. 5 KIA, 2 POW; F/O Bright … 5 KIA, 2 POW.
F 6h 50m 1 x 4000 + 13 J clusters. 15750’
[circled 3] 17-9-44. BOULOGNE. 19 from 467, 19 from 463, of 762 bombers dropping more than 3000 tons of H.E. bombs on German positions around Boulogne in preparation for an attack by Allied troops. The German garrison
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surrendered soon afterwards.
D. 3h 25 m. 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500. 8100’
[circled 4] 18-9-44 BREMERHAVEN. 19 of 467, 19 of 463, of 206 from 5-Group. No losses from Waddington. The post-war assessors found that this 5-Group attack, with less than 900 tons of bombs, started a fire-storm which destroyed 2750 buildings in the main port area, & that 30000 people were made homeless & lived in the open until evacuated several days later.
D 4h 45m. 18 cans (incendiaries – 150 per can). 15250’
[circled 5] [inserted] 19-9-44 [/inserted] RHEYDT/MUNCHEN-GLADBACH. 19 of 467, 16 of 463, of 227 Lancasters of 5-Group bombing the twin towns. German reports state that only between 267 and 271 people were killed. 467 lost one Lanc, crashing on returning (4 KIA, 1 POW, 2 evaded, including pilot, F/O Findlay) Master Bomber was W/C Guy Gibson, VC, DSO, DFC (of Dambusters fame) flying a Mosquito … which crashed in flames near the Dutch coast. He and his navigator (S/L J.N. Warwick, DFC) were killed and buried at Steenbergen-en-Kriesland. (Orbited target for 17mm – marking delay). 11000’
D 5h 5m 1 x 2000 + 12 J clusters.
[circled 6] 23-9-44 DORTMUND-EMS CANAL (Aqueduct). 19 of 467, 17 of 463, of 136 Lancs. from 5-Group mounting a special attack on the aqueduct at Ladbergen on the Dortmund-Ems Canal. The canal was breached, but losses were heavy 10% of the force were lost. 467 lost F/O G.A. Brown and crew. (5 KIA. 2 POW). (Orbited target losing height for 15 min extra there. Meant to bomb 14000’ but 6400’ due to cloud)
C 5h 25m 14 x 1000
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[inserted] On the unused back of one of the logsheets are some sketches (rough) of GEE BOX & the kind of blips, scales etc, displayed [/inserted]
(BREMERHAVEN, Con’t).
We took off at 1832, orbited base until 1844, when we set course at 2000’. At 1915 we needed to alter course southwards to regain our track as the winds were from about 085oT rather than 060oT (forecast). Our last GEE fix (before jamming) was on track near turning point A, and we’d climbed to 15000’, from which height we bombed at 2103. Our bomb load was 18 cans of incendiaries. The Lancaster bomb-bay, (quite long & wide, under the floor) had 14 ‘hooks’, so to use 18 cans, 3 of the hooks had a framework added to hold 3 cans side by side. The bomb-aimer could select all 14 hooks to release independently, usually at fairly short time intervals to produce a “stick” of bombs usefully spread. Each can of incendiaries released 150 small bombs about 5 cm diameter & about 40 cm long, each capable of starting a fire.
It was an easy trip for navigation, with GEE only jammed for about 1/2 hr before & after the target. We were airborne for 4h 46 min.
[circled 5] [underlined] RHEYDT/MUNCHEN-GLADBACH. 19.9.44 [/underlined] 19 Lancs from 467, & 16 from 463 were part of a total of 227 from 5 Group bombing the twin-towns. German reports state that only between 267 & 271 people were killed. 467 Sqdn lost one Lanc. crashing on returning (4 KIA but pilot, F/O Findlay, & one other evaded, & the 7th was imprisoned). The Master-Bomber was W/C Guy Gibson VC, DSO, DFC, of Dambuster fame, flying a Mosquito which crashed in flames near the Dutch coast. He and his navigator (S/L J.N. Warwick, DFC) were killed and buried at Steenbergen-en-Kriesland. We took off at 1856 and did a Radius-of-Action (track 260oT) to arrive back at Base at 1913, at 2000’. The winds were about as predicted, we kept close to track & time, and arrived at target at 2139 at 11000’, but were told to [underlined] orbit [/underlined] (to port) due to marking problems. At 2148 we were told to [underlined] orbit again, [/underlined] until, at 2151 we we [sic] told to “attack Green spot fires direct”, which we did at 2155, at 11000’.
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[photograph] D-Dog at Waddington, 1944
[photograph] [symbol] Peter at pilots window
[photograph] Our gunners
Left: Ken Nicholls, Rear Gunner
Right: Ray Giles, Mid-Upper Gunner
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RHEYDT/MUNCHEN-GLADBACH (Con’t).
At 2159 1/2 I logged “a/c hit ground – explosion – flame & smoke”
At 2201 1/2 I logged “a/c on ground, bears 000o, 2 min (51o23’, 05o51’E).
At 2211 we saw an unidentified fighter so went into the corkscrew routine, at about 51o30’N 05o00’E.
At 2213 1/2 , while in starbord [sic] turn saw unidentified fighter above us, at about 51o31’N 04o53’E, so continued to corkscrew.
At 2221, I logged “possible a/c hit ground 3 mi on port beam, about 51o32 1/2’N 04o19’E. Our bomb-load was 1 x 2000 lb & 12 “J” clusters. We were airborne for 5h 5 min.
[circled 6] [underlined] DORTMUND-EMS CANAL [/underlined]. 23.9.44. 19 from 467 & 17 from 463 of total 136 Lancs from 5 Group mounted a special attack on the aquaduct at Ladbergen. The canal was breached, but losses were heavy … 10% of the force. 467 Sqdn lost F/O G.A. Brown & crew (5 KIA, 2 POW).
We took off at 1906, did the usual Radius-of-Action to be back at Base at 1931 at 2000’. We crossed the Channel at 4000’ then climbed to 6000’, keeping nicely to track until 2047. GEE was being jammed, and the next 2 fixes showed us 10 & 20 mi North of track … they may have been wrong. We continued by dead-reckoning through cloud climbing to 14000’ and arriving at the target on time at 2148. (We were told by Master-Bomber at 2146 “to bomb 150 ft N.W. of Red Target Indicator (flare)” J. But we were in thick cloud, so [underlined] orbited to port [/underlined] losing height … very dangerous in cloud. At 2155 the Master-Bomber said “cloud base is 8000’, come in and bomb”, but we were still in cloud & had to do [underlined] another orbit [/underlined], losing height to 6300’, so that finally we could see the target at bombed at 2203 from 6400’.
At 2205 I logged “a/c hit ground & exploded 8 mi S.E. of [symbol], (at about 51o59’N 07o53’E.”
At 2228 1/2 I logged “crossed river; a/c hit ground, port beam, 3 mi.”
At 2229 “a/c directly under us hit ground, 52o15’N 06o11’E.”
At 2231 1/2 I logged “a/c hit ground ahead about 10 mi” [brackets]
At 2236 1/2 I logged “a/c (same one?) on port beam, 5 mi [brackets] 52o10’N 06o00’E
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DORTMUND-EMS CANAL (Con’t).
After leaving the target area, the winds must have been stronger than predicted from the South.
At 2253 I logged “Strong searchlights ahead … Bomb-Aimer thinks its Rotterdam” (about 10 mi North of desired track). So we immediately turned 40o to port, but copped some flak.
At 2303 we saw searchlights over the OVER FLAKKEE area, and at 2304 got our first GEE fix since our last good one at 2047 putting us about 11 mi north of track.
Our bomb-load was 14 x 1000 lb. We were airborne for 5h 25 min.
[underlined] CALAIS. 24.9.44. [/underlined] 8 from 467, & 7 from 463 of a total 188 from 5 Group. 8 were shot down, including 1 from 467 Sqdn, F/O R.A. Jones (3 KIA & 4 POW).
[circled 7] [underlined] KARLSRUHE 26.9.44 [/underlined]. 17 from 467, 14 from 463 of a total 227 from 5 Group. A short German report states “that there was damage throughout the city & lists several important buildings destroyed”. 467 Sqdn lost F/O K. Miller (1 KIA, 6 POW).
We took off at 0055 & did the usual radius-of-action to be back at base at 0113 at 3000’. The winds were much as predicted and we kept close to track & timing, our last reliable GEE fix was at 0337; we arrived at target at 0408 and Master-Bomber told us to “bomb direct on mixed Red & Green T.1’s” But we had 10/10 cloud below us, so we “went round again” & managed to bomb at 0414 from 11500’. Our first reliable GEE fix on the way home was at 0444, only just over 1 hour of jamming.
Our bomb-load was 18 cans of incendiaries, and we were airborne for 6h 50 mins.
[circled 8] [underlined] KAISERLAUTERN 27.9.44 [/underlined] 16 from 467, 15 from 463 of a total of 217 from 5 Group, did the only major raid of the war by Bomber Command. 909 tons of bombs were dropped causing widespread damage to this medium-sized city. A local German report complained that the town was not a military objective, but went on to list a catalogue of small factories destroyed. We took off at 2205,
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24-9-44. CALAIS. 8 of 467, 7 of 463, of 188 from 5-Group. 8 were shot down. 467 lost F/O R. A. Jones & crew (3 KIA, 4 POW)
[circled 7] 26-9-44 KARLSRUHE. 17 of 467, 14 of 463, of 227 from 5-Group. A short German report states that there was damage throughout the city & lists several important buildings destroyed. 467 lost F/O K. Miller & crew (1 KIA, 6 POW).
J 6h 50m 18 cans incendiaries 11500’
[circled 8] 27-9-44 KAISERLAUTERN. 16 of 467, 15 of 463, of 217 from 5-Group on Kaiserlautern, a medium-sized city, in the only major raid on it by Bomber Command during the war. 909 tons of bombs were dropped a widespread damage was caused. A local German report complains that the town was not a military object, but goes on to list a catalogue of small factories destroyed.
H 6h 20m 18 cans incendiaries 4000’
(Sept. Summary: 467 flew 199 sorties; lost 6 crews (23 KIA, 17 POW, 2 Ev.) 4 tours completed.)
[circled 9] 5-10-44 WILHELMSHAVEN 17 of 467, 16 of 463, of 227 from 5-Group. 10/10 cloud, marking by H2S. The Wilhelmshaven Diary states that only 12 people died and one bomber was shot down. 467 lost 1 crew (they ditched … hadn’t got to the target … at about 11 am. They were finally rescued about 5pm next day. After short leave, they returned to ‘ops, and were all Killed-in-Action on the Harburg raid.
(This was the only ‘trip’ on which we were allowed to use H2S (they thought enemy fighters could use its transmission to find us). We couldn’t see the markers, so bombed by H2S.)
C. 5h 5m. 18 cans incendiaries. 15000’ (We flew to target in formation escorted by long-range Mustangs
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did a Radius of Action to be back at base at 2228 at 3000’. We stayed at 3000’ until 0010, then climbed to 4500’ and stayed at 4500’ until close to target, when told to bomb from 4000’, which we did (1 1/2 min early), dropping 18 cans of incendiaries. We kept close to track all the way and only lost GEE for an hour. We were airborne for 6h 20 min.
[circled 9] [underlined] WILHELMHAVEN. [/underlined] 17 of 467, 16 of 463, of 227 from 5-Group, a daylight raid flying in formation to the target, escorted by long-range Mustang fighters. The met. forcast [sic] was for considerable cloud at the target, and we were given the most unusual priorities for bombing:-
(i) drop them visually if target is clear;
(ii) use H2S if target is obscured; or (!)
(iii) drop when you see another bomber drop its load.
We took off at 0755, did a Radius of Action to be back at base at 0811 to join formation at 1500’. My GEE set was not working, but being in formation I didn’t have to navigate anyway. Ted Pickard, the new assistant Nav. Officer, criticised my lack of effort to have some practice. At 1010 we began to climb to 15000’ at the target where at 1106 there was 10/10 cloud below. Our Bomb Aimer & I operated the H2S and aimed at the NW corner of the town and dropped our bombs at 1110 and noticed two other Lancasters dropped theirs immediately after. We flew home independently, but other Lancs were visible so we followed the stream. At 1212 I took over flying a plane for the first & only time, keeping straight & level without much trouble for half an hour. We did a bit of map-reading for the last 1/2 hour, and landed at 1306, being airborne for 5h 5 min. Our bomb-load was 18 cans of incendiaries. The Wilhelmshaven Diary states that only 12 people died and that 1 bomber was shot down. 467 lost 1 crew … they ditched before the target at about 11 am & were (finally) rescued about 1700 the next day. After short leave they resumed ops., but were all K.I.A. on the HARBURG raid on 11.11.44. Our bomb-load was 15 cans of incendiaries
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[circled 10] [underlined] BREMEN [/underlined] 17 of 467 Sq., 18 of 463 Sq., of 246 from 5 Group, a night raid on 6.10.44, with bomb-load 18 cans of incendiaries dropped from 17250’. Air borne at 1736 & did Return of Action arriving back at base at 1753 at 5000’. A good navigation trip keeping close to desired track, but winds were lighter than expected, so, despite reducing air-speed twice (10 mph each time) we did a 60o – 120o triangle to lose 7 min. This was the last of 32 major Bomber Command raids on Bremen of the war. This raid, based on the 5 Group marking method, was an outstanding success. 1021 tons of bombs were dropped, of which 868 tons were incendiaries. A detailed report (local) is available which was compiled by an official who stated that: “the night was clear, with 3/4 full moon. A huge fire area was started. Classed as destroyed were 4859 houses, 42 factories, 2 shipyards, the Focke-Wulf works & the Siemens-Schubert electrical works. The transport network was seriously disrupted.” This raid, by no more than 1/4 of Bomber Command (& hardly mentioned in the British War History) had finished Bremen … it was not attacked again in the war.
We landed at 2233 after a trip of 4hr 55 min.
[circled 11] [underlined] FLUSHING [/underlined] (WEST DYKE on WALCHEREN ISLAND in the Scheldt Estuary.) 12 of 467, & 11 of 463 of a total of 121 of 5 Group, a daylight raid on 7.10.44. We each did 2 runs dropping a stick of 7 each run (all 1000 lb HE bombs). The sea-wall was breached and virtually all the island was flooded except the rest of the sea-wall, the central tour (Middleburgh) & the town of Flushing. English newspapers had a photo of the flooded island the next day. We had no losses despite plenty of A.A. [inserted] [two indecipherable words] [/inserted]. On the same day 846 of Bomber Command attacked Kleve-Emerich & Kembs Dams. 617 Sqn. used Tallboys (12000 lb bomb) on Kembs to destroy the floodgates to [underlined] prevent [/underlined] the Germans flooding the valley in the face of the American & French advance.
We were airborn for 3h 10 min.
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[circled 10] 6-10-44 BREMEN. 17 of 467, 18 of 463, of 246 from 5-Group. This was the last of 32 major Bomber Command raids on Bremen during the war. The raid, based on the 5-Group marking method, was an outstanding success. 1021 tons of bombs were dropped of which 868 tons were incendiaries. A detailed local report is available which was compiled by an official who stated that the night was clear with 3/4 full moon … A huge fire area was started. Classed as destroyed were 4859 houses, 42 factories, 2 shipyards, the Focke-Wulfe works and the Siemens Schubert electrical works. The transport network was seriously disrupted. This raid, by no more than 1/4 of Bomber Command (and hardly mentioned in British (War) History, had finished Bremen and the city was not attacked again by Bomber Command.
D 4h 55m 18 cans incendiaries 17250’
[circled 11] 17-10-44 FLUSHING (WALCHEREN ISLAND – WEST DYKE)
12 of 467, 11 of 463, of 121 from 5-Group to successfully breach the sea-wall near Flushing. No losses. (The same day 846 of Bomber Command attacked Kleve Emerich & Kembs Dams … 617 Squadron used ‘Tallboy’ bombs on Kembs. (The idea was to destroy the floodgates to [underlined] prevent [/underlined] the Germans flooding the Rhine valley in the face of French & American advances … this was done OK.)
D 3h 10m 2 sticks of 7 x 1000 6100’ Extra 6 min. orbit for 2nd stick.
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DAY 11-10-44 FLUSHING. 14 of 467, 20 of 463, of 115 from 5-Group attacked gun positions on N. bank of Scheldt Estuary near Flushing. No losses from Waddington.
[deleted] NIGHT [/deleted] [inserted] DAY [/inserted] 14-10-44 DUISBURG Bomber command sent 1013 heavy bombers, and 473 fighters, Americans sent 1251 heavy bombers and 749 fighters … the raid was carried out on a directive from Allied H.Q. to show the Germans the power of Bomber Commands.
NIGHT 14-10-44 BRUNSWICK 19 of 467, 20 of 463 to join 233 of 5 Group. The most effective of numerous raids on Brunswick. Using the 5-Group low-level marking method, Brunswick was finally destroyed. A German report simply lists the number of hectares burnt out. 23000 people were rescued from air-raid shelters and only 200 perished. A special train was sent from Bavaria to help feed the 80000 homeless.
DAY 17-10-44 WESTKAPELLE 2 of 467, 9 of 463 of 47 from 5-Group attacking sea-wall at Westkapelle. Bombing appeared to be accurate but no report is available. No losses.
[circled 12] 19-10-44 NUREMBERG (& DUISBURG) 20 of 467, 20 of 463, of 263 from 5-Group with 7 Mosquitoes in a special low-level-marked attack on Nuremberg. The target was completely cloud-covered and low-level marking could not be used. The raid was effective but not the ‘knockout’ as hoped. (There were 103 bombers from another Group on Stuttgart and other targets, losing only 0.9%). 467 lost F/O E. Rodwell & crew (7 KIA)
D 8h 10m 1 x 2000 + 12 J clusters. 17400’
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On 11-10-44, 16 of 467, 20 of 463 of total 115 (all 5 Group) attacked big gun positions on the bank of [underlined] Scheldt Estuary [/underlined], near Flushing. The big guns prevented a sea attack to open the Estuary for Allied supply shipping (a minefield had to be cleared too), and they menaced the Canadian Army who were attacking south of the Estuary, but couldn’t match these big guns for range. I think the weather was bad, poor visibility maybe no great harm done to the guns.
On 14-10-44 there was a big daylight raid on [underlined] Duisberg [/underlined], carried out as a directive from Allied H.Q. to show the Germans the power of Allied Air Power. Bomber Command sent 1013 heavies & 413 fighters, the Americans sent 1251 heavies & 749 fighters.
That night, (14-10-44) 5 Group sent 19 of 467 Sq & 20 of 463 Sq of a total of 233, to [underlined] Brunswick [/underlined], using the 5 Group low-level marking method, Brunswick was finally destroyed. A German report simply lists the number of hectares burnt out. 23000 people were rescued from air-raid shelters & only 200 perished. Special train sent from Bavaria to help feed the 80000 homeless.
On 17-10-44, 2 of 467, & 9 of 463 Sq. of total of 47 of 5 Group attacked the sea-wall again near Westkapelle on Walcheren Island. Bombing appeared to be accurate but no report was available.
[circled 12] [underlined] NUREMBERG [/underlined]. 5 Group sent 20 of 467 Sq. & 20 of 463 Sq of a total of 263 with 7 Mosquitos to do low-level marking. There was total cloud cover which prevented the low-level marking. The raid was effective but not the knock-out hoped for. The rest of Bomber Command raided Stuttgart & other nearby targets, only losing 0.9%. 467 Sq. lost F/O Rodwell & crew (7 KIA). We took off at 1713, did a Radius of Action coming back to base at 1718 at 2000’. We reduced speed to 150 mph but still had to lose 6 min doing 60oL, 120oR, then got to [symbol] OK but had to orbit as directed.
Bombed 15 min late at 17400’ on Red & Green Target [deleted] [indecipherable word] flares [/deleted]
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Our bomb-load was 1 x 2000 lb HE, and 12 ‘J’ clusters (incendiary). After leaving the target we descended to 6000’, & flew on dead-reckoning, south of Stuttgart & Strasbourg for 2 hours until I got the first GEE fix, nearly 20 miles north of our track, but safely over France. Sid discovered that we had one of the ‘J’ bombs “hung-up”. We went to the jettison area in the Channel & tried to release it manually … did 2 orbits as we kept trying, but without success. So we flew on home to base at 4000’, landing after 8hr 9 min airborne, by far our longest flight so far.
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[inserted] [symbol] Don Coults (Engineer went to Ireland to visit his parents there. [/inserted]
After our 11th Op at Flushing we went on the usual 6-day leave, after only about 4 weeks after we started our tour. The crews were put on a roster for leave, usually each 6 weeks, but you could go earlier if a few crews before you on the list went missing.
A few items from a diary I kept then … 7th Oct: On our return from the Flushing op, we “shot-up” the ‘drome (low level) for W/C. Brill who was going home to Australia. Wrote up log book. Went to a dance with Jackie from our Mess.
8th:- Applied for leave passes. Got paid. Packed.
9th:- Collected subsistence money, & petrol coupons for bike, [symbol] got leave passes. Caught train to London, missed by Ken. Booked in at A.C.F. Club for the night. Ken arrived at 10 pm. We booked in for the rest of the leave. Nice room.
10th. Had breakfast at the Boomerang Club. I looked around & spotted Kirk Beddie from Mendooran. I’ll just go back in time to our first couple of operations to relate a coincidence. When our 8 new crews arrived together, our Nav. Leader, F/Lt Arnold Eastman, was still doing Ops himself, yet was responsible for in-service training of the navigators (especially us new ones). So he delegated the checking of log & charts, and giving advice to some of his senior navigators (Who’d lasted, say 10 ops or more). The first one who helped me twice was called Scotty – I didn’t find out his surname, it was strictly teacher & pupil, especially as he looked elderly … moustache & bald patch … (actually he was about 26). I didn’t see him again at Waddington – we had about 300 air-crew Flight sergeants there.
Anyway, at the Boomerang club, I said good-day to Kirk, we told each other what we’d been doing … he was well into a tour as captain of Sunderland crew – doing Atlantic patrols.
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I remarked that it was a coincidence that the only two fliers [sic] from Mendooran should be on leave at the same place & time. He said ‘-“Oh no, there’s another Mendooranite over here, Vernon Gall, who was the teller at the Bank of NSW there.” I replied that I didn’t know him. Kirk said:- “Well you might not have met him as you were at High School at Mudgee when your parents came to Mendooran, then you worked in Sydney, went into the Army, then the Air Force – you rarely were in Mendooran. Well, what do you know – there he is, I’ll bring him over & introduce you.” Kirk came back with Scotty. We laughed about that coincidence! After the war, when I bought the sports depot in Mudgee & transferred my bank a/c to the Bank of NSW there, Scotty was the teller.
[symbol] At the Club I also met Joe Barber & Eric Gentle who’d been with me at Cootamundra. Ken saw 4 chaps he knew at Lichfield, and I met Rupe Brown the Australian ground-crew corporal who looked after the 3 Lancs & ground crews at our dispersal corner. We went to a play, but didn’t enjoy it - - too serious. Back at A.C.F. played table-tennis with Ken & darts with Sid.
11th: Got some free theatre tickets with Sid & the play was quite enjoyable. Cinema after lunch .. Red Skelton in “Bathing Beauty”, very funny. Game of darts at the Club. Met Jack Freer, who played the saxophone on the ship across the Pacific.
12th. Ken & I got tickets for a play … a good comedy. Darts at the club after supper.
13th Got tickets for a show on Monday. Bought a wireless for £12/3/4.
[symbol] After the war, I found that Ray Meers (Rear Gunner) & Lindsay Francis (Wireless-Operator-Gunner, of Mendooran had both done tours with B.C. about the same time as I.
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14th. Bought more Xmas cards. Had lunch with Peter Dunn from Mudgee at the Club. Saw a newsreel, went to the Windmill theatre, a few beers with Ken, Supper, then table-tennis.
15th. Rupe left to return to Waddington (he’d shared our room
Visited Mme Tussauds waxworks Museum .. very good.
Walked through the Zoo. Saw a newsreel.
16th. At Boomerang Club met Ken Vidler’s crew (I think they were killed a bit later.) Walked the Embankment, saw Cleopatra’s Needle, down Whitehall, got a glimpse of 10 Downing St (cordoned off by Police). Saw the show we’d booked “Happy & Glorious”, easily the best show we’d been to. Had a few drinks with 2 girls who sleep in the railway station at Gloucester Road to be safe from air raids – they’d been doing that for years!
17th: Rain all day. Went cinema that featured 3 films … 4 1/4 hours. Had a steak (!) for 5/- then another film; couldn’t find the ‘steak’ cafe again.
18th. Packed, Sid came back from Exeter & Bristol. Played crib on the train with Sid, all the way to Lincoln. Lunch at 3, collected bike & rode back to camp.
19th. Flew at once for high-level-bombing practice … too much low cloud, so we got a fighter & did some affiliation practice. Then lunch & briefing at 1.30 for a “trip” to Nuremberg, the scene of one of B.C.’s worst losses sometime earlier, when about 500 heavies were caught below high cloud, searchlights lit them up & (from memory) nightfighters, mainly, & flak brought down 49 for a loss rate of 9%. This time it was cloud below us and 467 only lost 1 crew, F/O Rodwell’s … all KIA.
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[circled 13] 23-10-44 FLUSHING. 21 of 467, 20 of 463 of 121 from 5-Group attacked gun positions near Flushing. Visibility was bad and the bombing scattered.
D 3h 20m. 14 x 1000. Briefed to bomb at 6500’ but forced to descend (bad visibility). Bombed at 4000’
[circled 14] BERGEN 28-10-44. 20 of 467, 15 of 463, of 237 from 5-Group, to attack U-boat pens at Bergen. Target was cloud-covered and master-bomber called off the attack after only 47 planes had bombed … from below 5000’ (Mountains within 10 miles of track nearly 4500’!)
D 7h 30m. 12 x 1000 Briefed to bomb at 9000’. Orbited once [inserted] extra 6 min there [/inserted] and lost height using GEE to avoid mountains … bombed at 3800’ Diverted to Marston Moor on return (fog over Waddington). Returned next day.
[inserted] (On our final run there was AA fire from [underlined] above [/underlined] us (mountains) as well as below!) [/inserted]
[circled 15] 30-10-44 WALCHEREN ISLAND. 13 of 467, 13 of 463, of 102 from 5-Group attacked gun positions near Walcheren. The attack was successful and the Allied ground forces commenced their attack on 31st. No losses
Briefed to bomb at 6000’. Cloud over target. Two orbits made – 20 min over target area – bombed at 3500’.
D 3h 20m. 14 x 1000.
OCT ’44 SUMMARY: 467 flew 157 sorties, lost 2 crews (7 KIA, 7 Ev): 5 tours completed, incl. (C.O.) W/C. Brill completing his 2nd tour. 1 crew ditched, rescued & returned.
DAY 1-11-44 HOMBERG. 19 of 467, 17 of 463, of 226 from 5-Group attacked the Meerbeck oil plant at Homberg. Marking was scattered + only 159 planes attempted to bomb. No losses from Waddington.
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After nearly 2 hours on the way home we tried to jettison a J-Cluster (incendiary) which had “hung-up”. We turned back to try to realease [sic] it manually, but failed. So we brought it home & it was safely removed. We landed 1/2 hour late, time airborn was 8hr 9 min. Our bomb-load was 1 x 2000 lb HE & 12 ‘J’ clusters dropped from 17400’.
[circled 13] [underlined] FLUSHING [/underlined] 5 Group sent 121 incl. 21 of 467 Sq & 20 of 463, to attack big gun positions near Flushing on Walcheren Island on 23.10.44. Visibility was bad & the bombing was “scattered”. We took off at 1429, did a Radius of Action & got back to base at 1434 at 2000’. Had a good navigation trip but had to descent from 6500’ to 4000’ to see the target. 1 1/2 min before we bombed our gunners reported a Lanc. hit the sea behind us (I plotted it at 56o33’N, 03o27’E). Quite a few planes were lost and a lot of A.A. damage – we had many holes. Our bomb load was 14 of 1000 lb HE, and 1 of them “hung-up”. We tried to jettison it but couldn’t. We were airborn [sic] for 3h. 19 min.
[circled 14] [underlined] BERGEN (NORWAY) [/underlined] 5-Group sent 237 of which 20 from 467 Sq + 15 from 463, on 28-10-44 to attack U-boat pens at night. We took off at 2221 & did a Radius of Action & got back to base at 2250 at 1500’ which we maintained until 0120 (up till then we were over the N. Sea) when we climbed to 9000’ & increased speed to 180 mph as we were 3 min behind time. When we got to the target we were in cloud. The master bomber told us to come down to 5000’ … we had to orbit carefully as there were mountains East of Bergen over 4000’. I used GEE position lines to descend safely away from mountains to 3800’ when we bombed … about 10 min after the planned time. It was nice to have GEE all the way (no jamming like over Germany) & we kept nicely to track all the way. Our bomb load was 12 x 1000 lb HE. There was plenty of flak around Bergen … some from mountain tops nearly level with us! There was a lot of cloud (& maybe smoke-screen) at the target … master bomber cancelled the raid after only 47 of us bombed
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30.10.44. [symbol] 15 WALCHEREN ISLAND (FLUSHING). 13 from 467 Sqdn & 13 from 463 of 102 total (all 5 Group), daylight raid on big gun emplacements on the Southern edge of Walcheren Island. The Germans also held the Southern banks of the Scheldt Estuary. The Allies had always wanted to capture Antwerp (50 miles inland, the biggest port for unloading tanks & other heavy equipment). While ever these big guns covered both sides of the Estuary, the Allies couldn’t go in to clear the minefields. In fact the Canadian army trying to take the South bank was held up by bad weather (flooded terrain), lack of petrol & ammunition (Patton was partly to blame along with Eisenhower) for so long that eventually, [inserted] our [/inserted] [deleted] Armies [/deleted] [inserted] Marines [/inserted] took Antwerp from the East & finally [inserted] 8 NOV [/inserted] captured Walcheren Island by “sailing” through gaps in the sea-wall from the East! It then took [inserted] nearly [/inserted] another month to clear the mines & winter had set in … too late to use Antwerp for the big offensive they may have been able to mount had they cleared Antwerp 3 months earlier.
We took off at 1340, did a R. of A. & got back to base at 1356 at 1500’. The navigation was easy & we stayed on-track & on-time to the target. We’d been told to bomb at 6000’, but found cloud below, so had to orbit [inserted] twice [/inserted] lose height to 3500’, finally bombing 22 min later than planned. Our bomb load was 14 x 1000 lb HE. We had no losses. The attack was successful, and the Canadian army began their attack along the S. bank the next day.
We dropped 14 x 1000 lb HE; the flight took 3h 20 min. For October, 467 Sq. flew 157 sorties, lost 2 crews (7 KIA, 7 Evaded); 5 tours were completed; 1 crew ditched, were rescued & returned.
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Nov 1st. 226 Lancs of 5 Group (19 from 467 & 17 from 463), in daylight, raided the Meerbeck oil plant near Homberg. Weather was bad, the marking was scattered and only 159 attempted to bomb. No losses from Waddington.
2.11.44 [symbol] 16. DUSSELDORF. 5 Group was part of a big raid (992) by Bomber Command, 15 from 467, 15 from 463. Detailed German reports listed 5000 buildings destroyed, many of them industrial & production works. There were other raids that night too … a total of 1131 sorties. We took off at 1651, 15 min. late. We climbed to 17000’ & increased speed to 170 mph to catch up. At 1920 (at 18000’) we were “coned” by searchlights … very dangerous as ‘flak’ then could be fired visually. We shook them off & bombed at 1925, & I noted that an aircraft was hit about 10 mi ahead, our heading 220o.T. On the way home in the next 26 min, I made 12 more log entries of aircraft crashing to the ground with estimates of their bearing & distance from us.
The RAF had set up 2 more GEE “chains” based in Europe. I tried the RUHR chain, but found the readings “wouldn’t plot”.
Our bomb-load was 11 x 1000 lb & 4 x 500 lb HE.
The trip took 5h 20 min.
467 Sqdn lost F/O Langridge & crew (3 KIA, 5 evaded).
Dusseldorf taken (on Cook’s tour 19.6.45
[two photographs]
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[circled 16] 2-11-44. DUSSELDORF. 15 of 467, 15 of 463 as part of 992 of Bomber Command. Detailed German reports list 5000 buildings destroyed, many of them industrial & production works. (There were other raids that night too … a total of 1131 sorties.) 467 lost F/O L. Langridge & crew (3 KIA, 5 evaded).
C. 5h 20m. 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500. 18000’
NIGHT 4-11-44 DORTMUND-EMS CANAL. 12 of 467, 12 of 463, of 174 from 5-Group attacked the canal near Munster. The banks of the canal were breached again. A report from Albert Speer to Hitler dated 11.11.44 was captured at the end of the war. Speer stated that the raids on the Dortmund-Ems canal, with attacks on the rail system, produced more serious setbacks to the German war industry at this time than any other type of bombing.
[circled 17] 6-11-44. EMS-WESER CANAL. 19 of 467, 16 of 463, of 235 from 5-Group attacked near the junction of the Ems-Weser and Mittland canals, near Gravenhorst. Markers had considerable difficulty in finding the junction due to ground haze, until a low-flying Mosquito (pilot: F/L L.C. de Vigne, and Aust. navigator, S/L. F. Boyle of 627 Sqdn) found and marked the target with such accuracy that the marker fell into the water and was soon extinguished. Only 31 planes bombed before the Master-Bomber ordered the raid be abandoned. 10 planes lost in the raid, 3 crews from 463 (all KIA). Waddington was fog bound on return & most planes were diverted to Seething. We were perhaps the last to land (in v. poor visibility).
D 5h 25m. 14 x 1000 (but did not bomb). Orbited target once, for extra 10 min. over it.
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4.11.44. 174 Lancs of 5 Group, 12 each from 467 & 463 Sqdns, attacked the Dortmund-Ems Canal, near Munster. The banks of the canal were breached again. A report from Albert Speer to Hitler dated 11.11.44 was captured at the end of the war. Speer stated then:- “that the raids on the Dortmund-Ems Canal, with attacks on the rail system, produced more serious setbacks to the German war industry, at this time, than any other type of bombing.” (In early 1945, the raids on oil targets may have been even more damaging to their war effort.)
6.11.44 [symbol] 17. EMS-WESER CANAL. 235 of 5 Group, 19 from 467, 16 from 463 attacked the Ems-Weser junction with the Mittland Canal, near Gravenhorst. The markers had considerable difficulty finding the junction due to ground haze, until a low-flying Mosquito (pilot: F/Lt L.C. de Vigne, & Australian navigator, S/Ldr F. Boyle of 627 Sqdn) found & marked the target with such accuracy that the marker landed in the canal & was soon extinguished. Only 31 planes bombed before the Master-Bomber abandoned the raid. 10 planes were lost, 3 of them from 463 Sqdn (all KIA).
We were supposed to take off at 1633 but actually took off 28 min late, so once we climbed to 11000’ we boosted our I.A.S. to 180 mph & were on-time by 1915. I logged a Lanc. crashing at 1923 1/2; we had to orbit twice [inserted] (12 min) [/inserted], at the target (due to the marking problem) … very dangerous. Logged 4 more planes crashing [deleted] at [/deleted] in the target area, & another at 1943, after we’d left the target without bombing. I couldn’t get any “joy” on either of the 2 new GEE chains. The trip took 5h. 25 min. We brought back our 14 x 1000 lb H.E. bombs.
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The weather deteriorated on the way back … the bumps were so bad that I had to hold all my navigation gear down to stop them hitting the roof, & brace my knees under the nav. table to avoid joining them there. The visibility at Waddington was bad due to fog, and most of our planes were diverted to Strubby; however, Peter did an abbreviated circuit (so he could actually keep the runway in sight) & then came in as if in a Tiger Moth, almost clipping the caravan stationed near the “funnel” (where they might use a Verey to send-you-round-again), but he landed safely … and then they closed the airfield.
Besides getting the 2 new GEE chains (RHEIMS & RHUR) to help with navigation over Germany, we now had LORAN fitted. It was similar in some ways to GEE, but depened [sic] on the radio signals being reflected from the ionosphere (only at night). The stations were widely separated … I think England, Norway, Italy … and each single reading had to be made & timed, then another [deleted] one [/deleted] tuned-in, read & timed … probably 2 min or more later, & the running -fix method used. On 9.11.44 we did at [sic] Cross-Country, using Loran, over England, ending with some high-level bombing practice … 3 1/4 hrs trip. The trailing aerial had to be used to receive Loran signals.
11.11.44 [symbol] 18. HARBURG. A 5-Group raid of 237 planes, + 8 marker Mosquitos, 19 from 467, 14 from 463 … a night raid on the Rhenania-Ossag oil refinery, near Hamburg. This refinery had been raided several times by American daylight bombers. We took off at 1627, did a R. of A. to be back a [sic] base at 1634 at 3000’.
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(HARBURG)
We climbed to 15000’ & later to 16000’ to get out of cloud, & kept nicely to track all the way to the target, getting a bit behind time all the way (no worries we were over the sea nearly all the way). We bombed 8 min late from 16000’. Our WOP (Eric) told us the Master Bomber said to bomb the centre of the Red Target Indicators (there were 4), but to ignore outside Indicators which were dummies (set up by the Germans). Half an hour before the target I wanted to use LORAN, but Eric (our WOP) said he’d been ordered not to use the trailing aerial. I relied on Dead-Reckoning from the target and got my first GEE fix 50 min later about 15 mi. N. of track.
Our bomb-load was 1 x 4000 lb “cookie”, 6 x 1000 lb, & 6 x 500 lb H.E. We could still see the plant burning from 100 mi away on our way back. Our squadron lost F/O Fedderson’s crew (7 KIA) & F/O Eyre’s crew (6 KIA, 1 POW) … one of these killed was Geoff (“Bushie”) Goodfellow, their navigator, one of my best friends … we played a lot of cards together & we bunked opposite each other in our room. He came from Tooraweenah (father ran the “Mountain View” hotel there), & he said I was the only person he’d met that had even heard of the place, let alone been there, which I had.
F/L Kynoch’s plane was hit & badly damaged, but he crash-landed it at Manston (an emergency ‘drome on the coast) & he & the crew survived.
The flight lasted 5h. 35 min.
On 13.11.44 we did our “20 SORTIE CHECK”, on a flight of 55 min. We’d only done 18 ops plus the 2 BULLSEYES at Lichfield & Swinderby.
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[circled 18] 11-11-44 HARBURG. 19 of 467, 14 of 463, of 237 from 5-Group, plus 8 Marker Mosquitos attacked the Rhenania-Ossag oil refinery at Harburg (near Hamburg). This had been attacked several times by American (day) bombers. Brunwig’s ‘History of Hamburg & Harburg’ (air-raids), gives the raid a brief mention. (We could still see the plant burning 100 miles away on our way home.)
467 lost F/O. M. Fedderson & crew (7 POW), and F/O. T. Eyre & crew [inserted] (G Goodfellow was the Nav) [/inserted] (6 KIA, 1 POW). F/L Kynoch’s plane was hit and badly damaged – he crash-landed at Manston (an emergency ‘drome on the coast).
D 5h 35m. 1 x 4000 + 6 x 1000 + 6 x 500 16000’
[circled 19] 16-11-44 DUREN. 15 of 467, 15 of 463, as part of 1188 from Bomber Command, attacked Duren, Julich & Heinsburg in support of the American 1st & 9th armies which were about to advance on this area. Raids were made by 1239 American heavy bombers on targets in the same area. (this was the biggest raid we took part in … there were planes to the horizon all the way, heaps of fighter escorts.) 9400 tons of bombs dropped. The result was disappointing. Heavy rain and wet ground prevented much of the tank assault and slowed the supplies of artillery ammunition and the armies’ advance was slow and costly. (For our part, the centre of Duren was reduced to rubble.) G/C. Bonham-Carter, O/C of Waddington led our Group, as ‘second dickie’ to the crew who had bombed the wrong target on a daylight raid on Flushing (23-10-44?), killing some Canadians.
D 5h 25m. 12 x 1000. 10500’
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16.11.44 [symbol] 19. DUREN (daylight). 15 planes from 467, & 15 from 463, were part of a big effort by Bomber Command (1188 planes) attacking Duren, Julich & Heinsburg in support of the 1st & 9th American Armies which were about to advance in this area. Raids were made on other targets in this area by 1239 American heavy bombers. This was by far the biggest raid we took part in … there were planes to the horizon all the way with heaps of fighter escort … [deleted] B [/deleted] 9400 tons of bombs were dropped, but the result was disappointing. Heavy rain & boggy ground prevented most of the tank attack and slowed supplies of artillery ammunition with the result that the advance was slow & costly. For our part, the centre of Duren was reduced to rubble – it may have needed bulldozers to clear a path through it! The base commander at Waddington, Gp/Capt Bonham-Carter, led 5 Group as ‘second dickie’ to one of our crews who had bombed the wrong “target” (a smoke-generator) on an earlier daylight raid near Flushing on 23.10.44, killing some Canadian army men.
The navigation was easy. Our bomb-load was 12 x 1000 lb H.E. dropped from 10500’. Flight time: 5h 25 min.
[two photographs]
Snaps of Duren taken on the “Cook’s Tour” I did on 19.6.45.
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Extracts from Diary –
18.11.44 navigators briefing at 1.30 for a v. long trip. Not enough time for preparation. Our crew just got out to the “kite” when the trip was “scrubbed” …joy! After tea we went down to the local Horse & Jockey (Hotel). Saw a bloke about his car, & bought it for £3 … a little Morris 8 HP Sedan
19.11.44 To navigation section before lunch for another briefing, to the same place as yesterday, more time for preparation & less to do. No lunch … sandwiches at briefing … then it was scrubbed again. Collected car.
20.11.44. Went to briefing for another daylight raid on the Dortmund-Ems canal, but it was scrubbed. Went to town with Ken Nichols & Ken (of ground crew) … wanted to go to the theatre, but all seats were sold, so we went to the cinema & saw “White Cliffs of Dover.”
21.11.44. Briefed again for the same canal raid as yesterday, chart was already done. [symbol] It was scrubbed at the 11th hour & we missed lunch … again had sandwiches in the briefing room.
21.11.44 [symbol] 20 DORMUND-EMS CANAL
We took off at 1726, did a R. of A. & got back to base at 1754 at 2000’. The winds were light & fairly consistently Westerly at first, then N.W. It was easy to keep on track & close on-time. At 2020 I logged “Lanc, crashed & blew-up 15 mi. astern”. We’d been at 10250’ until 2058 when WOP told us to descent to 3-4000’ … we did so, fast, and bombed at 2103. At 2108 I logged: “Aircraft crashed below us 3 mi. past other target.” At 2232 we jettisoned a hang-up bomb in the sea. Landed at base at 2337, time airborne 6h 11 min. Our bomb-load was 13 x 1000 lb H.E.
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21.11.44. [symbol] 20. DORTMUND-EMS CANAL, near LADBERGEN.
15 from 467, 15 from 463 bombed Dortmund-Ems & Mittland Canals; as part of Bomber Command maximum effort of 1345 heavy bombers attacking 6 targets in this general area.
No losses for 5-Group.
We took off at 1726, did a R. of A. getting back to base at 1754 at 2000’. I had a good navigation trip, GEE from England lasted until 2020, then the RUHR chain worked to the target area. I logged a Lanc. blowing-up 15 mi astern at 2020. We were briefed to bomb at 10500’ but, 5 min before out T.O.T our W.O.P. (Eric) got word that we descend to 3 – 4000’ to get below cloud. We descended quickly & bombed 5 min later at 4500’; then began climbing again into the clouds. Tried Loran for fixing without success. We had a bomb hang-up, but jettisonned [sic] it in the sea at 2222.
Our bomb load was 13 x 1000 lb H.E.
The trip took 6h 10 min.
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This is an enlargement of the smaller print of the area bombed repeatedly … DORTMUND EMS CANAL.
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[photograph] Open bomb-bay of a Lanc. loaded with 1000 lb H.E. bombs. Bomb-aimer could select each one to drop separately at predetermined intervals (usually close together as a “stick”.)
[photograph] Our Mid-upper gunner Ray Giles, near his turret – 2 Browning .303 machine guns
[photograph] Lanc’s in formation on a daylight raid. Nearest is PO-J
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On a low-level “Cooks Tour” from Wigsley on 19th June, 1945 (after war’s end in Europe), I took some photos with the old box Kodak.
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The Dortmund Ems canal where it was built above a stream, shown clearly in the left photo. The embankments here were bombed repeatedly, 8 times I think. We did 3 of Ops there and one at the nearby Ems-Weser canal.
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Broken bridges over the Rhine at Duisberg – we didn’t bomb there, but 5 Group did.
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The Krupps works at Essen, which was regularly bombed by the RAF during most of the war. Including some 1000 – bomber raids.
[photograph] Wrecked bridges at Cologne, another regular RAF target; somehow the Cathedral survived.
[photograph] The railway marshalling yards at Hamm received plenty of “attention”
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Dusseldorf was regularly bombed … we did our 16th Op. there
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[circled 20] 21-11-44. DORTMUND-EMS CANAL, (near LADBERGEN). 15 of 467, 15 of 463 as part of 1345 Bomber Command heavies attacked 6 targets in this general area. 5-Group targets were the Mitteland and Dortmund-Ems canals … without loss.
D 6h 10m. 13 x 1000. Briefed to bomb at 10250’, got 5 min warning by radio to descend to cloud base … bombed at 4500’.
[circled 21] 23-11-44. TRONDHEIM. 16 of 467, 4 of 463 of 171 from 5-Group, incl. 7 Mosquito Markers, to attack U-boat pens at Trondheim. The target was covered b y a smokescreen and could not be marked. The Master Bomber ordered the raid abandoned. No losses. (The weather was bad; big wind changes. Many jettisoned bombs in North Sea or diverted to North Scotland due to fuel shortage … we were the only one to return to Waddington with bombs still aboard.)
D 10h 55m. 9 x 1000 (brought home).
26-11-44 MUNICH (Our rear gunner, K. Nickols, went on this trip as ‘spare bod’.) 270 Lancs from 5-Group, 467 lost F/O Findlay & crew (crashed – out of fuel … their Nav. vomited and blocked his oxygen supply, went unconscious and they got lost in cloud. But all survived the crash and were flown home by the Americans on 1.12.44.
NOVEMBER SUMMARY 467 did 148 sorties, lost 4 crews (9 KIA, 8 POW, 11 Ev) 8 tours expired. 2 were badly wounded.
NIGHT 4-12-44 HIELBRONN. 282 from 5-Group (Main force attacked Karlsruhe). 467 lost F/O J. Plumridge & crew (6 KIA. 1 POW). F/L Bill Kynock & crew attacked by fighter, rear gunner killed (F/S R. Steele), and plane badly damaged (we think it was ‘D’.), crash landed at Manston (emergency airfield).
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23.11.44 [symbol] 21. TRONDHEIM (Norway). 5-Group sent 171 planes (including 7 Mosquito markers) to attack the U-boat facilities there. This was a very long trip mostly over the North Sea at low-level (1000’) in bad weather, rain & severe wind-changes. Tankers topped us up with petrol at the end of the runway before we took off at 1609, 12 min late. GEE ran out at 1848 … over 2 hours before we’d reach the target. We were unable to identify where we crossed the coast, so we continued on northwards and at 2050 saw the target lit up by flares to our left. A wind velocity to use for bombing was received by radio, and at 2055 we saw yellow Target Indicators about 10 mi to Port. We turned to a Westerly course. At 2102 we were told to abandon the raid as a smoke-screen obscured the target. We continued by Dead Reckoning & B.A. (Sid) identified a pin-point at 2112. We descended from 9000’ to 1000’, and at about 2130 discovered that the earlier pin-point was wrong, giving a new one near Smolen Island. At 2248 I got my first GEE fix (after 1 1/2 hr since the target) … about 50 mi NW of where we thought we’d be … big wind change. Pilot (Peter) & I decided to aim to land at LEUCHARS (Nth Scotland) as we had a head-wind. Then, at 0024 I got a good fix & found the wind had eased & changed to NE, and by 2130 was from the NW & getting faster. Pilot & Engineer consulted with me & we decided to try for Waddington, cutting our speed back from 190 to 170 mph. The wind held about NW & increased to about 45 mph, so we reached base OK & landed at 0302, with only about 80 gallons left. Most of our planes jettisonned [sic] bombs in the North Sea, or landed at Leuchars. We were the sole plane to bring our bombs home to Waddington. Trip-time 10h 53 min.
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26.11.44. 5-Group sent 270 heavies to MUNICH. Our rear-gunner, Ken Nicholls went as a “spare-bod” in place of a sick crewman. One of the 467 crews crashed, out of fuel. Their navigator had vomited and blocked his oxygen supply, he went unconscious, and they were lost in cloud. They all survived the crash-landing and were flown back by the Americans on 1.12.44.
November summary for 467 Sqdn: 148 sorties, 4 crews lost (9 KIA, 8 POW, 11 Evaded); 8 tours expired. 2 men were badly wounded.
4.12.44 (night). HEILBRONN was attacked by 282 from 5 Group, while the main force of Bomber Command attacked Karlsruhe. 467 Sqdn lost F/O Plumridge & crew (6 KIA, 1 POW). F/Lt Bill Kynoch’s plane was attacked by a fighter, his rear-gunner killed (F/Sgt R. Steele) & the plane badly damaged … we think it was our favourite “D”. They crash landed at the emergency ‘drome, Manston, & we heard that “D” was a write-off.
6.12.44. GIESSEN (night) attacked by 255 of 5-Group (19 from each of 467 & 463 sqdns) while the rest of Bomber Command bombed Osnabruck & Leuna (oil plant).
8.12.44 URFT DAM [symbol] 1. 205 of 5-Group (10 of 467, 15 of 463). 9/10 cloud over target, no result observed. No loss.
10.12.44 URFT DAM [symbol] 2. 5-Group (15 [inserted] each [/inserted] of 467 & 463). All were recalled before the target due to bad weather & visibility.
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More extracts from Diary.
23.11.44. No operations on. Went to Lincoln with Peter & Don in my car to see about getting Peter’s car fixed. Went to the pictures.
Feeling very crook … terrible cough.
24.11.44. Went on sick parade. The Dr. reckoned I was OK for flying … I didn’t. had heard there was to be a long trip that night & saw the Dr. again .. he put me into Sick Quarters & I slept!!! about 20 hours a day. Our crew wasn’t listed for the operation that night, but our rear-gunner, Ken Nichols, opted to go with Bill Kynock’s crew … but the trip was scrubbed anyway. Ken visited me.
25.11.44. Still in sick-quarters. No ops. Ken, Don & Rupe came to see me, then they went to an ENSA concert on the base.
26.11.44. Out of sick-quarters. Ken went with Kynoch’s crew to MUNICH in crook weather. It was OK at the target, quiet & a good ‘prang’. Went over to [deleted] 3 Sqdn [/deleted] SICK QUARTERS to see Ted Pickerd who’d been our Navigation analysis ‘joker’ for some months. Played pontoon, won 10/- Kynoch’s crew were diverted to Langham.
27.11.44. Went to Swinderby & got 3 gal of petrol in the car. Ken & Kynocks crew came back from Langham.
28.11.44. No ops. Made up a list of comments on ops that had to be done … big job. Flew to Thornaby [deleted] to bring [/deleted] & back in ‘D’ [deleted] back [/deleted] with a ferry crew for their plane.
Navigators party on tonight … too bad Ted Pickerd is still in sickquarters. Des Sands (o i/c A flight … Sqn Ldr, DFM on 2nd or 3rd tour) Lionel Hart & I took others in cars, the rest used bikes. Wionderful show. Bags of beer & fun.
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NIGHT 6-12-44 GIESSEN 19 of 467, 19 of 463, of 255 from 5-Group. (Main force attacked Osnabruck & Leuna).
DAY 8-12-44. URFT DAM [symbol] 1. 10 of 467, 15 of 463 of 205 from 5-Group. 9/10 cloud over target and no result observed. No loss.
DAY 10-12-44 URFT DAM [symbol] 2. 15 of 467, 15 of 463 … 5-Group. All recalled before reaching target due to bad weather and visibility.
[circled 22] 11-12-44 URFT DAM [symbol] 3. 15 of 467, 15 of 463, of 233 from 5-Group, with Mosquito Markers. Hits observed but no breach seen. (We brought our bombs home, despite doing an orbit … (hoping for gap in clouds) … against orders … extra 7 min. in target area. Very accurate radar-directed flak; we lost P.O. motor.).
F 6h 5m. 14 x 1000 (brought home) (9750’)
[circled 23] 17-12-44 MUNICH. 22 of 467, 19 of 463 of 280 from 5-Group, with 8 Mosquito Markers. (Main force attacked Duisburg, Ulm and Munster … a total of 1310 heavies, 1.1% loss.) Reconnaissance showed severe damage. 467 lost F/O T. Evans & crew (all 7 Ev) … they collided after bombing with an engine on fire.
M 9h 45m 1 x 4000 + 9 cans + 1 MONROE 11750’
[circled 24] 18-12-44 GDYNIA. 19 of 467, 15 of 463 of 236 from 5-Group. 2 crews from each flight attacked 2 pocket Battleships anchored near the port (which was the main target) … we hit “Lutzow” with 3 of our bombs (& 1 v. close in water) nicely near funnel area. Considerable damage to port area.
M 9h 45m. 10 x 1000 S.A.P.
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29.11.44. No ops. Went into Lincoln to try to register car … no joy; had to go to Sleaford, but no time. Tore around garages [inserted] for [/inserted] a battery & brake adjusters, but no joy. Finished off the navigation comments from yesterday. Decided to sell my autocycle & got a buyer. Played pontoon, won 3/-.
30.11.44. No ops. Went to Sleaford, got car registered & oil changed. Got coupons for petrol to go on leave, packed up, got leave pass, laundry & shoes. Went into Lincoln with Ken & got petrol & a new battery. Saw about trains for Ray & Eric for tomorrow.
1.12.44. Went out to our dispersal where mechanics helped get new battery in & working after a lot of trouble … bludged a couple of gallons of petrol from Ken (ground crew). Left at 10.10, had lunch at Nottingham & then went on to Birmingham, getting to where Don was staying at 3.30. had tea there, played solo until 1.30 am, went down to “Old Farm” at [inserted] ? Wesley [/inserted] Westly Castle for the night.
2.12.44. Duck eggs for breakfast! Lunch at Police Station (don had been a policeman in Birmingham before he enlisted for air crew.) Then tea at Mrs Benlays (friend of Don). Met Ken & Mrs Smith & Margaret from next door. Played solo. Went to Police Club for drinks. More solo ‘till 2 am. Slept next door at Smiths.
3.12.44. Breakfasts on both at Smiths & Benlays. Called at jewellers for Ken’s watch, but no luck. Set off for Swindon. Lunch at Swan’s Nest in Stratford. Looked over Shakespeare’s birthplace, got postcards & saw Home Guard parade. Went on to “Stow-in-the-Wold” & stayed the night in a nice little pub. Played darts, crib & drank beer.
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[photograph] Engineer Don Coutts & Mid Upper Gunner Ray Giles, Birmingham
[photograph] Rear Gunner, Ken Nichols, & Ray Giles at Benlay’s place at Birmingham where we stayed on leave 1/2 Dec ’44.
[photograph] Ray Giles, at Benlays’ place, Birmingham
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More from the Diary.
4.12.44. Rachel Swindon for dinner. Found our way out to Clyffe-Pyhard & saw Bunty Duff & got back just before dark. Had tea at fish & chip shop & went to pictures – saw Jon Hall & Maria Montez in ‘Cobra Woman’.
5.12.44 After breakfast towed an Engineers car to get it started. Bought side-lamp for car. Reached Slough via Reading for lunch & called [deleted] on [/deleted] at Margaret Vyner’s place … she was in London meeting Hugh Marlowe, home from France on 72-hours leave. Saw Mrs Vyner & Hugo, had afternoon tea & went to Slough, booked in at Salthill Hotel & had tea. At pub, picked up 2 girls & took them home but got lost on the way back. Turned in at 12.30.
6.12.44. Looked around a lot of shops in Slough & finally got some bulbs for dash-lights. Met an old Aussie-Scot, Macintosh for yarn & drinks; he showed us his home at 26 Windsor Rd. Slough. Drove to Windsor & looked over Eton College on Founders Day, … going for 504 years. Saw Windsor Castle & had tea there. Played cards with Ken, before & after tea.
7.12.44. After breakfast caught train to London & booked in at A.C.F. Club. Met Scottie Gall & Kirk Beddie again; had steak (!) & mushrooms at Athens Cafe; went to pictures & saw “Casanova Brown”. More steak with onions then a variety show at the Empire in Finsbury Park. Went back tp pub at Gloucester Rd & saw girls we knew from last leave in London. Also ran into Syd & Peter.
8.12.44. Arranged to meet Peter on the way to Cambridge. Got car at Slough & was 1 hr late in meeting Peter. Had lunch at Cambridge Arms. Saw a good picture “Love Story”. Met a navigator I knew at Brighton … Cameron, who’d done 35 ops in Mosquitos. More steak & onions for supper.
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9.12.44. Looked at some of Cambridge University … not much to see. Had lunch at roadside pub and got to Lincoln about 4.30. collected photos, had drinks at the Saracens head & went to a show at the Royal Theatre. Peter’s car had a flat tyre. Got battle-dress from cleaners & put overcoat in. A good leave
10.12.44. Welcomed back to nav. section. No ‘war’ today. had an interview for commission with Group-Captain Bonham-Carter. W/Cdr Bill Brill had told us not to apply for a commission until we’d done about 20 “trips”. But after he left, in October, the new C.O. W/Cdr J.K. Douglas invited anyone interested in a commission to apply, regardless of the number of ops. I did, but didn’t impress him with my answers (especially when I said “probably not” to his question “would I be more use to the air force with a commission?”. He didn’t recommend me. But Bonham-Carter said something like this: “I have 2 W’ Cdrs here, at 467 & 463; one C.O. recommends virtually all applicants after they’ve done 20 trips; the other (Douglas) likes to interview them at depth & knocks a few back. I have to make the final decision. You seem to be doing well. I’ll look at you again next month.” (He saw me in Mid-January with only one Op (Brux) to go, and recommended me without any further questioning.)
11.12.44. Took laundry & boots down but didn’t have time to check them in … there’s “war” on. Went to briefing room & sorted out Gee charts. The briefing was hurried; the plane we got, (F), was slow, climbed poorly, and we were late getting to the target.
(con’t on next page)
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11.12.44 [symbol] 22. URFT DAM No 3. Daylight raid by 233 from 5-Group (15 each from 467 & 463 Sqdns), with Mosquitos doing the marking. Hits were observed but no breach seen. We brought our bombs back despite doing an orbit (against orders) hoping for a gap in the clouds … we spent 7 minutes extra over the target, and experienced very accurate radar-directed flak just after leaving. We lost our Port-Outer motor.
We took off at 1205, did a R. of A. returning to base at 1219, at 6000’. We climbed to 12000’ & “cruised” at 170 mph, but gradually got behind time (5 min late at 1350) but only 3 min. late at the target. This plane, F, would not go any faster with our bomb-load of 14 x 1000 lb. H.E. Pilot feathered our Port Outer motor at 1554 (maybe some flak damage). Jettisonned [sic] 2 bombs at 1645 which took extra time … ending up 47 min. late home. Flight time 6h 5 min.
17.12.44 [symbol] 23. Night-raid on MUNICH by 280 from 5-Group, (22 from 467, 19 from 463), with 8 Mosquito markers. The rest of Bomber Command attacked Duisberg, Ulm & Munster, a total of 1310 ‘heavies’, for a 1.1% loss rate. Reconnaissance showed severe damage. 467 lost F/O T. Evans & crew (all 7 Evaded) … they collided after bombing with an engine on fire; they baled out before the plane crashed.
We took off at 1636, 3 min late, and immediately began climbing on course, south for Reading, then into France near Le Havre, mostly at 4000’, very bumpy, tried 5000’ to get out of cloud, then down to 3000’ & back to 4000’. As we neared the SW corner of Switzerland we climbed to 15000’ & skirted its southern border, seeing lights on in some villages.
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We had a good navigation trip to the target, keeping close to track & timing OK. We used GEE until 2026, then some LORAN fixes (some inaccurate) but sighted target at 2152, descended to 12000’ to bomb at 2211.
At 2214 I logged “air-to-air firing up – qr. to beam”
At 2215 1/2 “ “ “aircraft went in 40 mi ahead”.
We began descending in steps to 5500’ & continued to use LORAN until 2350 when GEE came good.
I got very airsick about 2250 (first time since Cootamundra!), and at about 2310 saw flak coming up from Mulhouse, so we turned to Port to avoid it. At 0110, the GEE box went unserviceable (U/S), and we read PUNDITS back to base where we landed at 0220. Flight time was 9h 45 min, bomb load was 1 x 4000 lb “cookie” & 9 cans of incendiaries & 1 Monroe.
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18.11.44. [symbol] 24. GYDNIA (“A” Target: Pocket Battleship LUTZOW).
A 5-Group raid, 236 planes, 19 of 467 & 15 of 463 Sqdn, on the Naval base. Considerable damage to the port area was reported. Two crews from each flight of both squadrons were to arrive at their targets … two pocket battleships, 9 min before the rest of the Group were to start bombing; the markers & the accompanying flare-force (they dropped lots of long-burning flares to light up the area for the Markers) arrived then too. We were supposed to see the battleships in the light of the flares & do our bombing between 2151 & 2156. Our bomb-load was 10 x 1000 S.A.P (Semi-Armour Piercing) bombs … unlikely to be really damaging, although the decks of the pocket-battleships were much thinner than on “real” battleships (although they had 16” guns, the same.)
We took off at 1712, already 10 min later than planned, & flew at about 3 – 4000’ at 180 mph until 2000, when we climbed to 11500’. GEE had given out at 1850, but LORAN was OK & I got good signals at 1920, but we hadn’t been given Loran charts that covered beyond 56oN. So it was dead-reckoning & the hope of a pin-point later. Then, at 2055 1/2, I got a Loran fix, on track, just below the 56oN latitude, which could be plotted. I got another dubious fix at 2105 1/2, about 5 mi Sth of track, then another good one at 2122 1/2, on track again. I got another good Loran fix at 2133 which allowed me to estimate the wind velocity at 190/23. We turned on dead-reckoning 3 min late at point E, & arrived at point F, on dead-reckoning 2 min late, and steered visually for our target. At 2150, Syd, our Bomb-Aimer, reported a smoke screen starting over the battleships area. The flares went down at 2150 1/2, but didn’t penetrate the smokescreen. At 2153 our Pilot, Peter, decided to “go-round” again. As we turned Syd saw the Lutzow, [indecipherable word] behind us now. We flew North East
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for a while, did a timed run, using his stop-watch, to be back over our target at 2158. But again, the smoke-screen obscured our target. We turned Northwards & repeated the timed run. All this time we experienced a lot of radar-predicted flak, close enough to keep rocking our plane. While we were doing this 3rd orbit, Peter said: “If we can’t bomb this time, we’ll go round again and lose height to bomb at low-level.” Syd said: “Geez, that would be bloody dangerous.” At 2206, the target was clear & we bombed accurately. On the photograph which we saw back at base the next day, 3 of our bombs hit the deck amidships, one very close to the funnel, and a 4th bomb right alongside in the water. We’d actually bombed from 11750’ at 150 mph (I.A.S.), heading 260oT. At 2208 I logged: “Lanc. crashed Stb. Bow, 20 mi.” We crossed the coast at 2216 and got a Loran fix at 2222 1/2, only 3 mi. S. of track. The rest of the trip home was uneventful, we kept close to track and landed at 0303, flight-time 9h 51 min.
[drawing of area map]
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I did some research about the Lutzow & Admiral von Sheer. They were both damaged and the Lutzow was towed to Swinemunde, the Admiral von Sheer to Keil, where, on the night of 9/10 April ’45, a raid using 591 planes, sank the von Sheer, and so severely damaged the light cruised Emden & the heavy cruiser Hippo, that their crews then scuttled them … they were unable to put to sea. Then on the night of 16/17 April, 617 Squadron attacked Swinemunde, & effectively disposed of Germany’s last pocket battleship, Lutzow, although I read that its crew also finally scuttled it, as it was beyond repair
[symbol] [underlined] 25 [/underlined]. 27-12-44. 5-Group sent 200 planes (15 of 467 & 12 of 463) to bomb [underlined] RHEYT [/underlined] (our [symbol] 25 trip), the railway yards there, part of Munchen-Gladbach, where we’d done our 5th trip. We took off at 1204, did a R. of A. to be back at base at 1220 at 6000’. We were supposed to fly in formation but there was a lot of confusion … we finally flew individually until 1309 when we joined the formation. Near the target, the other planes began turning towards the target long before reaching the GEE lattice line we were told to follow. We did as we’d been told, and bombed at 1505 1/2 from 17200’. The trip home was uneventful, the navigation easy, as we had GEE all the way, using the RHUR chain over Germany. We had some flak going close just after the target at 1512 1/2. We landed at 1705, flight-time was 5h., bomb-load was 14 x 1000 lb. H.E.
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[deleted] [circled [indecipherable number]] [/deleted] NIGHT 21-12-44. POLITZ. 17 of 467, 17 of 463, of 207 from 5-Group attacked synthetic oil plant. 3 Lancs lost over Europe, but 5 crashed in England on return … 90% of airfields were fogbound … most were diverted to Scotland, but some were so short on fuel they had to try to land in fog. (F.L. Kynoch crashed ‘M’ at Waddington, but no injuries.)
[circled 25] 27-12-44 RHEYDT. 15 of 467, 12 of 463, of 200 from 5-Group, attacked railway yards at Rheydt. No loss
C 5h 0m. 14 x 1000. 17200’
DAY 28-12-44 MOSS SHIPPING (OSLO FIORD). 4 of 467, 6 of 463 of 67 from 5-Group attacked a large naval unit off Oslo Fiord. No direct hits claimed.
30-12-44 HOUFFALIZE. 12 of 467, 12 of 463 of 166 from 5-Group attacked the German supply bottleneck at Houffalize. Cloud obscured target. (Main force of 500 heavies attacked Kalh-Nord railway yards near Cologne … results obscured by cloud.)
DEC ’44 SUMMARY. December ended in a long spell of cold, fog & snow which restricted operations and serviceability. 467 flew 172 sorties, losing 2 crews + 1 gunner. (7 KIA, 1 POW, 7 Ev) 8 crews finished tours. 1 crew crashlanded [sic] and were rescued.
(The 2 Lanc. Squadrons (467 & 463) had learnt that the 5-Group method of marking was the most cost-effective way of striking heavy flows to the enemy. From 17.8.44 (when Bomber Command returned to attacks on Germany proper, after the many short trips for 2nd Front, a total of 72881 sorties from which 696 aircraft were lost (… about 1%). In this period of 137 days [deleted] 467 & 463 [/deleted] [inserted] Bomber Command [/inserted] made 530 sorties per day (av.) & lost 5.1 planes per day (av.) … 265708 tons of bombs were dropped.
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[circled 26] 1-1-45. DORTMUND-EMS CANAL 18 of 467, 5 of 463 of 102 from 5-Group, breached the canal near Ladbergen, (the Germans had repaired the canal again.) They were using an enormous number of slave labourers (‘Todt’ workers … 40000 we heard) to repair these vital links in their transport system. (And so when the barges began to run again they ‘knew’ the Lancs would soon come, and they were ready with AA & fighters … it was a hot spot.)
(On this trip F/O Merv Bache got an immediate DSO … their B/A. was Sam Nelson (WaggaWagga) … onfire, [sic] crashed just inside Allied lines … they’d all baled out in time. F/S Thompson of 9 Sqdn. got a posthumous VC also.)
B 6h 40m. 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500. 10900’
Landed at STRUBBY on return, due to fog.
NIGHT 1.1.45 MITTELLAND CANAL (GRAVENHORST). 4 of 467, 6 of 463, of 152 from 5-Group with 5 Mosquitos. No loss. During all this period, Waddington, and most of England, was deep in snow. Aircraft were buried in snow, and runways could not be kept open for them. Landing on icy runways was difficult. (On 1.1.45, Bomber Command flew 598 sorties day & night, and 5 planes crashed trying to land.)
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More about the DORTMUND-EMS on 1/1/45.
Many years after the war I got to know Sam Nelson, (also a golfer), who was the Bomb Aimer in Merv Bache’s crew. He told me that his navigator was in the process of writing a small book covering their ‘troubles’ that day. I mentioned that I still had my logs & charts, including for that day, so I posted them to him, with the result that parts of my log & chart were photocopied (reduced size) and included in his book … and I received a copy; later a few more pages were sent about what happened to their crew members thereafter. Several of their crew had a reunion in Canberra just at the time when they refurbished the Lancaster display in the War Museum. They told the staff of their “trouble” on 1/1/45, and were given the privilege of going inside the Lanc, even though it was not then open to the public.
I’ve made a “pocket” at the back of this folder for that book.
On pages 33/4 of that book is some details about a major German air attack on Allied aircraft & airfields on the same morning as our daylight raid on the Dortmund-Ems Canal. It may have been fortunate for us that most of their fighters were otherwise-occupied that morning.
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[circled 27] 4.1.45. ROYAN (S. France).
8 of 467, 16 of 463, of 344 Lancs & 7 Mosquitoes. F/O R. Eggins (467) had a mid-air collision with another Lanc., they baled out & were rescued.
Stubborn German garrison holding out at Royan prevented Allies from using Bordeaux as a port. (the Americans had kept a big force in that area, hoping to capture Bordeaux much earlier.) Bomber Command was ordered to bomb the town. It appears that the order was cancelled, but that order not received by the Squadrons concerned. But the French people there were told of the cancellation. As a result 700 French people were killed & soured relations with Britain.
We took off at [deleted] 0122 [/deleted] 0104, did the usual Radius of Action to be back at base at 0140 at 2000’. We flew southwards crossing the coast near Portsmouth. We had GEE all the way 7 so kept nicely on-track; the winds mainly from NNE varied between 35 & 60 mph.
When just short of the target we got a message at 0359 1/2 “do not bomb for 2 min.” We were due there in about 1 min. I wrote “Have to orbit I think.” Then at 0400 1/2 we were told “Come in & bomb”, which we did at 0401 without having to orbit, at 6250’.
We had an easy trip home, airborne for 6h. 30m. Our bomb load was 1 x 4000 (“Cookie”), & 16 x 500 lb HE.
On the back of my chart are several diagrams showing what the displays looked like on the GEE-BOX, and an indication of the curves on our GEE Charts.
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NIGHT. 5-1-45 HOUFFALIZE. 10 of 467, 8 of 463, of 131 from 5 Group, with 9 Mosquitos attacked supply bottleneck at Houffalize in the Ardennes. Target was hit with great accuracy. No loss. (Main force of 664 attacked Hannover, losing [underlined] 4.7%. [/underlined])
[circled 28] 7-1-45 MUNICH. 11 of 467, 16 of 463, of 645 Lancs. and 9 Mosquitos. This was the last major raid on Munich by Bomber Command; the industrial area was severely damaged. 467 lost F/O W. McNamee & crew (all KIA) … Severe icing caused high fuel consumption … they ran out of fuel and baled out over the sea 5 mi. from Eye, but were not found.
V 8h 45m. 1 x 4000 + 6 J clusters.
(The winds on this trip were forecast at about 80 mph from NW, so the route to the target was direct across Germany, then home south of Switzerland. (Usually, on Munich trips, we’d go out south of Switzerland, hiding from radar behind the mountains – maybe – then come home, faster across Germany.) The winds, in places, exceeded 100 mph. We were forced to ‘waste time’ on the way to the target (dangerous over Germany!). We took 3 hours to reach Munich loaded, then 6 hours to come home empty!)
[inserted] I haven’t got my log & chart for this trip – mislaid when I was teaching ATC cadets at Forest Hills [/inserted]
NIGHT 13-1-45 POLITZ. 17 of 467, 14 of 463, of 218 Lancs & 7 Mosquitos from 5-Group, attacked the oil plant near Stettin. Intended to be [inserted] a [/inserted] blind H2S attack, but the target was clear and the 5-Group low-level-marking was used in an accurate attack. Photo-reconnaissance stated that the oil plant was reduced to rubble. No loss from Waddington.
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NIGHT 14-1-45 MERSBERG-LEUNA. 14 of 467, 14 of 463 of 573 Lancs & 14 Mosquitos attacked the synthetic oil plant at Leuna. Albert Speer wrote … “this was the most damaging raid on the synthetic oil industry”. (The remainder of Bomber Command raided Grevenbroich & Dulmen … a total of 1214 sorties.)
[circled 29] 16-1-45 BRUX. 16 of 467, 12 of 463 of 231 Lancs & 6 Mosquitos of 5-Group, attacked the synthetic oil plant in western Czecho-slovakia [sic] (the plant had P.O.W. camps quite close by). The raid was a complete success. Speer also mentions this raid “as a particularly severe setback to oil production”. (Bomber Command attacked 4 other targets this night with a total of 1238 bombers. All were successful … the loss rate was 2.4% (about 30). No loss from Waddington.
D 10h. 0m. 1 x 4000 + 12 x 500 (Not dropped – bomb circuit U.S.) 14250’
(The bombing circuit was faulty – we made 3 orbits of the target, taking 20 mins, but could not remedy the trouble. We set out for home with bombs aboard and flew home at fairly low altitude – varying between 4500’ & 8500’, our airspeed 15 – 20 mph slower than the rest of the force. Then we had to make a diversion into the North Sea jettison area to manually release one bomb fitted with anti-handling fuse. The result was that we were last home, nearly an hour late. As this was our last trip we were ‘expected’ to come home faster than usual & be ‘first home’ … many thought we were unlucky enough to ‘get the chop’ on our last trip. The aircraft had severe problems (besides the bomb circuit and resulted in a tragic crash on 2.2.45, killing all but one of the crew … included were T. Paine & W. Robinson from Mudgee.)
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I met Chris Jarret at a University conference in the 60’s and heard from him what happened to them in ‘D’ on the night of 2-2-45.
He was lucky to survive, although it was easy for the Bomb-Aimer to be first out when told to “Bale-Out”. The next man out would have been Tom Paine, the Rear Gunner, & he told me that he was the only other one to get out & open his ‘chute in time to avoid death, but that Tom landed over the crest of a hill & was killed by the plane crashing & bombs exploding near him, while Chris had landed on the other side of the hill.
Tom Paine was in my classes at Mudgee High right from 1st year in 1936.
Bill Robinson must have started in 1935 as he was a year ahead of us; but I can remember him as the school was rather small (about 400) compared to the 1000+ when I taught there in the ‘60s.
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NIGHT 22-1-45. GELSENKIRCHEN. 0 from 467, 1 from 463. (photographic)
JANUARY SUMMARY. The month ended with heavy snow and bad visibility. 467 did 90 sorties losing 3 crews (7 KIA, 14 Ev.) 4 crews ‘tour-expired’.
NIGHT 1-2-45 SIEGEN (Railway Yards) 21 of 467, 19 of 463 of 271 from 5-Group. 467 lost one crew – the navigator was our A-flight commander, Des Sands DFM, an Australian in the RAF on his second tour … he survived, parachuted, captured.
NIGHT 2-2-45 KARLSRUHE. 19 of 467, 16 of 463, of 250 from 5-Group. 467 lost 2 crews (14 KIA (incl. a ‘second dickie’ pilot) 1 POW. ‘D’ was one of the two. F/O A. Robinson [inserted] (pilot) [/inserted] and Rear Gunner – Tom Paine – went to school with me at Mudgee High – Tom was in the same class. (See extract from ‘The Bulletin’ for story by Bomb-Aimer survivor, whom I met accindentally [sic] at an external studies school at UNE (Armidale) in the ‘60’s.)
NIGHT 7-2-45 DORTMUND-EMS CANAL (near LADBERGEN)
13 from 467. 467 lost c.o. W/C J. K. Douglas & crew (+ second dickie Bomb-aimer) … 3 KIA, 4 POW, 1 Ev.
NIGHT. 8-2-45 POLITZ. 15 of 467, 16 of 463 of 163 total (5-Group was 1st ‘Wave’, other groups followed and put this important oil plant out of action for the remainder of the war. 1020 bombers attacked other targets including Krefeld.
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13-2-45 DRESDEN. 17 of 467, 19 of 463 of 144 Lancs and 9 Mosquitos from 5-Group attacked Dresden as the 1st wave of a 2-part attack, dropping 800 tons. The second wave, 3 hours later, dropped 1800 tons, mostly incendiaries, causing a devastating fire-storm. German report says that more than 50000 people died.
14-2-45 ROSITZ. 16 of 467, 16 of 463 of 224 Lancs + 8 Mosquitos from 5-Group, attacked the oil refinery near Leipzig. The rest of Bomber Command attacked 4 other targets – a total of 1316 ‘heavies’, loss rate 1.7%.
19-2-45 BOHLEN. 19 of 467, 16 of 463 of 254 Lancs and 6 Mosquitos from 5-Group. Raid was unsuccessful. The Master Bomber, W/C E.A. Benjamin DFF + Bar, was shot down by flak & killed. Only superficial damage was caused.
20-2-45 MITTLELAND CANAL near GRAVENHORST. 10 of 467, 10 of 463, of 154 Lancs & 11 Mosquitos of 5-Group … raids on the canal by now were called “the milk run”. A comment (in the Waddington report) … “5-Group had bombed the canal so often that the Germans could leave their guns aimed ready for the next raid”. The Master Bomber abandoned this raid when it could not be marked properly due to heavy low cloud. (The Main Force – of B.C. – did 4 raids using H2S. Total of 1283 sorties, loss rate 1.7%)
21-2-45 MITTLELAND CANAL (again). 10 of 467, 10 of 463 of 165 Lancs & 12 Mosquitos from 5-Group. Weather was clear, and the canal was breached.
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The Main Force raided 4 other targets, 1110 sorties; losses 3.1%. 463 Sq. lost their C.O. W/C Forbes on his last trip of 2nd Tour … shot down by German nightfighter ace, Major H.W. Schnaufer.
NIGHT 23-2-45. PFORZHEIM. 1 of 463 (Photo) 367 Lancs of 1, 6 & 8 groups. 1825 tons of bombs dropped … “The 3rd most effective raid of the war … killed 17000, and 83% of the town destroyed by a fire-storm.
DAY 24-2-45 DORTMUND-EMS CANAL. 18 of 467, 11 of 463, of 166 Lancs & 4 Mosquitos from 5-Group … The target was obscured by cloud and the raid abandoned. No Loss.
FEBRUARY SUMMARY. The weather was often bad. 467 did 158 sorties, lost 5 crews + 3 who baled out + 3 “2nd dickies”. (25 KIA, 15 POW, 1 Ev.) 3 tours expired. 1 Crew crashed in training.
NIGHT 3-3-45. DORTMUND-EMS CANAL. 15 of 467, 15 of 463, of 212 Lancs + 10 Mosquitos of 5-Group breached the aqueduct near Ladbergen in 2 places, putting it out of action until after the war’s end. 467 lost F/O R.T. Ward and crew (7 KIA); F/O R.B. Eggins & crew (6 KIA, 1 POW), and the C.O. W/C E. Langlois & crew (5 KIA, 2 POW) … he had only become C.O. on 9th Feb. 8 Lancs lost over Ger. 20 over U.K.[inserted] loss [/inserted] 3.6%
(This night the Luftwaffe mounted “Operation Gisela” sending 200 night fighters to follow various bomber forces into England (& so not being detected). They took the British defences by surprise and they shot down 20 bombers over England (some were Lancaster training planes … a couple at Wigsley, where I was Duty Navigator in the control tower!) The bomb dump at Waddington was attacked but wasn’t blown up. 3 German fighters crashed flying too low.
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NIGHT 5-3-45 BOHLEN 15 of 467, 15 of 463 of 248 from 5-Group, attacked synthetic oil refinery. Target was cloudy but some damage. Bomber Command made 1223 sorties for 31 lost over Germany and 10 crashed in England … “visibility had detiorated [sic] for returning aircraft”. (Percy Jobson, of Wagga Wagga, a friend of hockey years, was shot down, parachuted, on this trip … a big write up given.)
NIGHT 6-3-45. SASSNITZ - - a port on the Baltic Sea.
NIGHT 7-3-45 HARBURG. oil refinery (5-Group). Bomber Command total (on various targets): 1276, loss 41 (3.2%)
DAY 11-3-45 ESSEN by 1079 bombers … the largest day raid by B.C. … “paralysed Essen until the Americans entered. 467 lost 1 crew (all KIA) on collision with a Hurricane near base in F.A. training.
DAY 12-3-45 Dortmund. 1108 planes, record tonnage 4851 tons … with fighter escorts, over 2000 planes … “put the city out of the war”.
NIGHT 14-3-45 LUTZKENDORF. 5-Group attack on oil refinery, losing 18 (7.4%). Main Force of 568 attacked Zweibrucken & Homburg & other minor targets … 2.8% loss
NIGHT 16-3-45 WURZBURG. 5-Group, 225 Lancs & 11 Mosquitos, dropped 1207 tons with great accuracy in 17 minutes … 89% of industrial part of city destroyed. 467 lost F/O Thomas & crew (6 KIA, 1 POW). Main force attacked NUREMBERG with 480 planes, losing 28 (4.2%), due to night-fighters joining the bomber stream before the target
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DAY 19-3-45 ARNSBERG RAILWAY VIADUCT. 37 Lancs of 617 and 9 Sqdns (and 1 photo Lanc. from 463) dropped 6 ‘Grand Slam’ 10-ton bombs … the ‘earthquake-effect’ collapsed the viaduct … the film was spectacular.
NIGHT. 20-3-45 BOHLEN. 5-Group. The main force was on Hemingstedt with 675 planes, loss rate 1.9%.
DAY 22-3-45 BREMEN. 5-Group. Rail bridge.
NIGHT. 23-3-45 WESEL. 5-Group. 1000 tons in 9 minutes from 9000’ … as close army support … “British Army crossed the river before the bombers had left the area”, and Wesel was in British hands before midnight (the bombing ended at 2239). Wesel claims it was the most heavily bombed town in Germany … 97% of buildings destroyed in main town area; population reduced from 250000 at outbreak of war, to 1900 in May ’45.
DAY 27-3-45 FARGE Oil Storage, 5-Group plus 2 of 617 attacking U-Boat shelters with 23’-thick concrete roof. 2 of the Grand-Slam bombs penetrated the roof and brought down thousands of tons of concrete and rubble, rendering the shelter ineffective.
MARCH SUMMARY 467 flew 185 sorties, lost 4 crews (24 KIA, 4 POW), 4 crews completed tours.
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DAY 4-4-45 NORDHAUSEN. 5-Group … Military barracks Many ‘forced labourers killed’.
DAY 6-4-45 IJMUIDEN … on ships … raid abandoned due to bad weather.
NIGHT 7-4-45 MOLBIS. Benzol plant … “all production ceased”.
NIGHT 8-4-45 LUTZKENDORF. 5-Group. Oil refinery. ‘Put out of action until end of war’. Main force was on Hamburg 440 planes, & other targets, total of 918 planes … 1.3% loss.
DAY 9-4-45 HAMBURG .. oil storage (5-Group) and 617 Sq attacked U-Boat shelters with Grand Slam bombs, and Tallboy bombs. Both raids successful. On this raid German ME 152 & 153 jet fighters attacked the Lancs for the first time.
NIGHT 16-4-45 PILSEN 5-Group. Rail Yards.
NIGHT 18-4-45 KOMOTAU 5-Group.
DAY 23-4-45 FLENSBURG Railway yards. (Abandoned – cloud)
NIGHT 25-4-45 TONSBERG Oil Refinery & U Boat pens (Norway)
463 Sq. lost the last Lancaster of the war (crew survived)
3300 Lancasters lost in the whole war.
467 Sq from Nov ’42 to 26 Apr ’45 – flew 4188 sorties, used 214 Lancs. lost 110 by enemy action, 4 damaged – crashlandings but recovered. 590 KIA. 117 POW. 8E Ev. 5 DSO, 146 DFC. 2 CGM. 36 DFM
[page break]
[underlined] 467 SQUADRON – R.A.A.F. [/underlined]
467 Squadron was formed at SCAMPTON, LINCOLNSHIRE 7-11-42.
Moved to BOTTESFORD by 30-11-1942. Moved to WADDINGTON 11-11-1943.
Bottesford Station Commanding Officers: G/C. SWAIN, F.R.O: OBE: DFC.
From 3.3.43. – G/C. McKECKNIE, W.N: DFC.
[underlined] 467 SQAUDRON moved to WADDINGTON 12.11.43 [/underlined]
Waddington Station Commanding Officers:
16.4.43. G/C. S.C. ELWORTHY, CCB, CBE, DSO, MVO, DFC, AFC, MA.
31.3.44. G/C. D.W. BONHAM-CARTER, CB, DFC.
14.4.45. G/C. E.D. McK. NELSON, CB.
1.8.45 G/C. D.D. CHRISTIE, AFC.
24.8.45. G/C. A.E. TAYLOR.
467 SQUADRON COMMANDERS:
7.11.42. W/C. C.L. COMM, DSO, DFC. _ _ _ KIA 16.8.43.
19.8.43. W/C. J.R. BALMER, DFC, OBE. _ _ _ KIA 11.5.44.
12.5.44. W/C. W.L. BRILL, DSO, DFC & Bar _ _ _ Died 1964.
12.10.44. W/C. J.K. DOUGLAS, DFC, AFC. _ _ KIA 8.2.45.
9.2.45. W/C. E. le P. LANGLOIS _ _ KIA 3.4.45.
4.3.45. W/C. I.H. HAY, DFC. _ _ To disbandment.
467 STATION ADJUTANTS: F/L. BURFIELD_CARPENTER.
F/L. A.D. McDONALD (A18121): F/L. J.M.W. LOVE.
467 SQUADRON moved to RAF METHERINGHAM 16.6.45 and were disbanded there October, 1945.
[underlined] 467 STATISTICS COMPILED FROM OPERATIONAL RECORD BOOKS [/underlined].
First Operational Sortie – 2/3.1.1943 – To FURZE _ Minelaying.
Last Operational Sortie – 26/26.4.45 – to TONSBURG.
[underlined] OPERATIONAL SORTIES ATTEMPTED [/underlined]:
No. of a/c actually took off on operations: 3977
No. of Operational sorties completed: 3795
No. of Operational sorties failed: 182
[underlined] REASON FOR FAILURE OF SORTIE [/underlined]:
a/c failed to return – listed missing 105
a/c early return due to Engine Failure: 28
a/c early return due to Electrical Failure: 10
a/c “ “ “ to Armament Failure: 9
a/c “ “ “ to Oxygen Failure: 9
a/c “ “ “ to Instruments, radio, intercom failure: 12
a/c “ “ “ to Ice in flight & ice damage: 6
a/c “ “ “ to Navigational Error: [underlined] 3 [/underlined]
[underlined] 182 [/underlined]
No. of Sorties completed in a/c damaged by Enemy Action: 230
No. of Aircrew listed in Operational Record Books as flown on ops from 467 Sqdn, RAAF: (inc. RAF, RNZAF, RCAF): 1814
No. of Aircrew listed in ORB’s as War Casualty from 467 Sq: (includes) RAAF, RAF, RNZAF, RCAF): 760
No. of whole crews posted to 467 Sq. for Ops: 258
No. of whole crews finished tour of ops – 30 or more: 74
No. of whole crews lost on Ops: 115
No. of whole crews still operating when hostilities ceased 8.5.45. and not tour expired: 31
No. of whole crews posted to other Squadrons during tour: 34
No. of whole crews with no Ops. before hostilities ceased: 4
No. of crews from 53 Base who flew on ops from 467 Sqdn and not listed as posted to 467 Sqdn. 6
[page break]
[inserted] Extract of “WAR” List for an Operation … late 1944. [/inserted]
F/S J.W. Singer (Can) – Sgt A. Carson – [missing name]
PB. 193 ‘W’ – F/O R.J. Harris – P/O J.T. Adair – Sgt T. Andrews – Sgt R. Walker
P/O H.F.C. Parsons – F/L R.W. Cook – Sgt S. Saunders
EE.136 – F/O A.L. Keely – F/S W. Chorny (Can) – Sgt A.E. Wotherspoon – Sgt C.H. Connwell
F/S L.W. Tanner – Sgt S.D. Chambers – Sgt J.E. Johnson
LM.713 – F/O C. Newton (Can) – Sgt P. Grant – Sgt W. Gregory – Sgt E.H. Cooper (Can)
Sgt R. Flynn (Can) – Sgt L.G. Kelly – Sgt R.S. Stevens (Can)
LM.715 ‘O’ – F/O R.W. Ayrton (Aus) – Sgt M.J. Herkes – Sgt H.K. Huddlestone – Sgt D.K. Chalcraft
F/S N. Bardsley – Sgt W. Scott – Sgt J.A.W. Davies
ME.809 – F/O R.C. Lake – P.O J.A. Peterson (Can) – Sgt R.W. Baird – Sgt R.A. Morton
W/O G.B. Watts (Can) – F/S G.E. Parkinson – P/O R.D. Kerr (Can)
No. 467 Squadron, Second Wave
NF.908 ‘C’ – F/L J.K. Livingstone – F/L D.O. Sands – F/O E.G. Parsons – F/O R.N. Browne
P/O W.D. McMahon (Aus) – F/O J. Pendergast – F/O T.C. Taylor
PB306 – F/O R.J. Mayes (Aus) – F/O L.J. Hart (Aus) – Sgt D.H. Hamilton – F/S J. Manning
F/S A.R. Edgar (Aus) – F/S J.G. Muir (Aus) – F/S K.W. Cary (Aus)
LM.100 ‘D’ – F/O P.R. Gray-Buchanan (Aus) – F.S. H.G. Adams (Aus) – Sgt D.M. Coutts – F/S J.R. Giles (Aus)
F/S B.J. Payne (Aus) – F/S E.J. Taylor (Aus) – F/S K. Nichols (Aus)
PD.215 ‘F’ – F/O L. Landridge (Aus) – F/S D.G. Beverley (Aus) – Sgt J. Halstead – Sgt D.J. Allen
F/S K.C. Woollam (Aus) – F/S W.C. Denny (Aus) – Sgt B.A. Davies
LM.542 ‘K’ – F/O T.A. Gummersall (Aus) – F/S L.C.C. Chalcraft (Aus) – Sgt J. Clemons – F/S E.R. Baldwin (Aus)
F/O F.A. York (Aus) – F/S S.J. Anders (Aus) – F/S W.H. Bradbury (Aus)
LM.233 ‘M’ – F/O J.J. Sheridan (Aus) – F.S G.W. Gould (Aus) – Sgt B.J. Ambrose – Sgt J. Hodgson
F/S A. Raymond (Aus) – F/S W. Branagh (Aus) – Sgt R. Ward
LM.677 – F/O J.J.J. Cross (Aus) – F/S D.F. Edwards (Aus) – Sgt K.M. Pope – F.S W.K. Perry (Aus)
F/O V.L. Drouyn (Aus) – F/S W.V. Maurer (Aus) – F/S M.D. Wilkie (Aus)
NF.910 – F/O G.H. Stewart (Aus) – F/O R. Faulks (Aus) – Sgt G. Hopwood – F/S D.J. Morland (Aus)
F/S R. Galov (Aus) – F/S M.J.H. West (Aus) – F/S F.H. Skuthorpe (Aus)
NF.917 ‘Q’ – F/O R.S. Forge (Aus) – F/O H.M. Bissell (Aus) – Sgt W.C. Bradley – Sgt H. R. Harvey
F/O R.H. Darwin (Aus) – F/S E.J. O’Kearney (Aus) – Sgt R. Haire
ND.473 – F/O R.H. Mellville (Aus) – F/S J.L. Klye (Aus) – Sgt R.J. Brady – F/S D.D. Suter (Aus)
F/S J.F. Tongue (Aus) – F/S B.T. Hoskin (Aus) – F/S R.C.M. Newling (Aus)
NF.908 – F/O L.R. Pedersen (Aus) – F/S J.S. Hodgson (Aus) – Sgt D.R. Ba.dry [sic] – Sgt E.W. Durrant
F/S P.K. Garvey (AUS) – F/S V.J.M. McCarthy (AUS) – Sgt A.E. Dearns
NN.714 – F/O E.B. Rowell (Aus – F/S R.L. Morris (Aus) – Sgt A.J. Halls – Sgt. A Thomson
F/S D.J. Taylor (Aus) – F/S A.S. Smith (Aus) – Sgt A. Thomson
F/S D.J. Taylor (Aus) – F/S A.S. Smith (Aus) – Sgt J. Hodge
No. 463 Squadron, Third Wave
ND.133 ‘X’ – W/C W.A. Forbes (Aus) – F/O J.A. Costello – P/O W.A. Martin – F/S A.J. Norman
F/O W.J. Grime – P/O W. McLeod – P/O K.L. Worden
PD.311 ‘O’ – F/O P.J. Bowell (Aus) – F/S E.A. Petersen (Aus) – Sgt W. Forster – F/S W.H.J. Butcher (Aus)
F/S W. Plumb (Aus) – W/O J.R. Williams (Aus) – F/S I.D. Dutfiield [sic] (Aus)
LM.130 ‘N’ – F/O A.G. Stutter (Aus) – F/S P.L. Wilkinson (Aus) – Sgt H. Walsh – F/S M.F. Woodgate (Aus)
F/S P. O’Loughlin (Aus) – F/S D.J. Browning (Aus) – F/S H.R. Holmes (Aus)
PD.337 ‘L’ – F/O F.H. Smith (Aus) – Sgt E. Moss – ?
F/S B.A. Donaghue (Aus) – F/S R.T. Simonson (Aus) – F/S E.R. Cameron (Aus)
ND.977 – F/O G.T. White (Aus) – F/S G.D. Smith (Aus) – Sgt C. Jackson – Sgt V.G. Dunn
F/S H. Robinson (Aus) – F/S J.J.B. Middleton (Aus) – Sgt W. S. Bayne
PD.330 ‘F’ – F/O K.P. Brady (Aus) – F/S E.D. Rees – Sgt C.R. Levy – F/S G. Berglund (Aus)
F/S G.W. Boyes – F/S J.D. Stevens (Aus) – F/S J.E. Cox (Aus)
MD.332 – F/O B. Ward-Smith (Aus) – F/O R.W. Markham (Aus) – Sgt E. Taylor – F/S A.J. Tyson (Aus)
[page break]
[underlined] 5 Group, [/underlined] the biggest of 6 in Bomber Command.
Our 467 squadron was one of 18 Lancaster squadrons the Group. They were:-
9 at Bardney
227 at Balderton
[missing number] 4 (Rhod.) “ Spilsby
[underlined] 463 & 467 “ Waddington [/underlined]
49 “ Fulbeck
619 at Strubby
50 & 61 “ Skellingthorpe
630 “ East Kirkby
57 “ East Kirkby
617, 627 “ Woodhall Spa [symbol] Mosquitos
83 & 97 (Pathfinders) Coningsby
106 Metheringham
189 Fulbeck
207 Spilsby
[underlined] Some notable raids [/underlined]:
1944 Sept. 12/13. First operational use of [underlined] Loran [/underlined].
“ 23/4. Dortmund-Ems canal breached by [underlined] Tallboy [/underlined] (12000 lb bomb, designed by Barnes Wallis).
Oct. 3 Sea wall at Westkapelle (Walcheren Is) breached.
“ 14/5 Biggest night ops by Bomber Command of the war.
“ 23/4. Part of 1055 plane raid on Essen.
“ 25 “ “ 771 “ “ “ “, finishes it.
Nov. 2/3 “ “ 992 “ “ “ Dusseldorf.
“ 4/5. 174 Lancs breach Dortmund-Ems canal again.
“ 12 Tirpitz sank at Tromso by 9 & 617 Sqdns.
1945 Jan 1/2. 157 Lancs breach Mittleand canal.
“ 4/5. raid on Royan kills many French civilians.
“ 7/8. Part of 654 a/c; last raid on Munich.
Mar 14. Bielefeld aquaduct [sic] broken using Barnes Wallis’s new 22000 lb Grand Slam bomb. by 617 Sqdn.
“ 27. U-boat shelter at Farge blown up using the Grand Slam bomb, by 617 Sqdn.
Feb. 20/21 First of 36 consecutive night raids on Berlin by Mosquitos of 627 Sqdn.
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[circled 8]
[underlined] 5 Group [/underlined] Sqdns. As at 22.3.45.
Lanc I, III
9 Bardney
44 (Rhod.) Spilsby
49 Fulbeck.
50 Skellingthorpe
57 East Kirkby
61 Skellingthorpe
106 Metheringham
189 Fulbeck.
207 Spilsby
227 Balderton
463 [brackets] RAAF Waddington
407 RAAF Waddington [/brackets]
619 Strubby
630 East Kirkby
[symbol] 617 Woodhall Spa.
[brackets] 83 PFF Coningsby
97 PFF Coningsby [/brackets]
627 Woodhall Spa. Mosquito IV, XX, 25.
(83, 97 & 627 on loan from 8 Group.)
[inserted] [underlined] 1944. [/underlined] [/inserted]
Sept 12/13 First operational use of LORAN.
“ 23/4. Dortmund Ems canal breached by Tallboy (12000 lb).
Oct 3. Sea wall at Westkapelle (Walcheren Is) breached.
14/15 BC. biggest night ops of war.
23/24. 1055 raid on Essen. 25th 771 on Essen finishes it.
Nov 2/3. 992 on Dusseldorf.
4/5. 174 breach Dortmund Ems canal again.
12. Tirpitz sank at Tromas by 9 & 617 Sq.
Jan 1/2. 157 breach Mittleand Canal.
[inserted] 1945
Jan 4/5 Royan – many French casualties.
7/8 Last raid on Munich 654 a/c
Mar 14. Bielefeld aqueduct broken … Grand Slam 22000 lb.
27 U boat shelter at Farge successful using “ “ “
Feb. 20/21 first of 36 consecutive night raids on Berlin by mosquitos. [/inserted]
[page break]
Extracts from “The Hardest Victory – RAF Bomber Command in WW II by Dennis Richards. (Hodder & Stoughton, 1944.)
1944. March to June. The Transportation Plan, preparatory to OVERLORD … the invasion in Normandy. As part of the plan to convince the Germans that the landing would be in the Pas de Calais, far more bridges and railway workshops and marshalling yards were attacked North of the Seine than South of it. In this phase Bomber Command dealt with 37 of the railway centres, 8th American Air Force heavies 26, & AEAF (fighters, fighter-bombers, light & medium bombers, & recon. aircraft, a mixture of RAF & USAAF squadrons) 20. Bomber command dropped nearly 45000 tons on these centres, twice the tonnage of the other 2 put together. Harris in “Bomber Command” wrote:- “Bomber Command’s night bombing proved to be rather more accurate, much heavier in weight & more concentrated than the American daylight attacks, a fact which was afterwards clearly recognised by SHAEF when the time came (later) for the bombing of German troop concentrations within a mile or so of our own troops.”
In this phase, Bomber Command made 69 attacks, 9000 sorties & lost 198 planes (1.8%). They did enormous damage. In the end about 2/3 of the 37 centres were classed as completely out of action for a month or more, and the remainder as needing only some further “attention” from fighter-bombers.
Unhappily, the toll of friendly civilian lives was sometimes more than the “prescribed” limit of 100 – 150 per raid … (Coutrai 252, Lille 456, Ghent 482), but overall the total was much less than the 10000 “limit”.
The attacks on rail centres by all 3 air forces proved catastrophic for the Germans. Only about 12% of rolling stock was fit for use. A division from Poland took 3 days to get to West Germany, then 4 weeks to the Normandy battlefront!
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[duplicate page]
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[circled 2]
A particularly important raid, both in technique & results, was that on 5/6 Apr. (’43) on the Gnome et Rhône aero-works at Toulouse. 144 Lancs from 5 Group, with Leonard Cheshire of 617 SQN doing the initial marking at low level from a Mosquito. 2 Lancs of 617 reinforced the marking with great accuracy & this led to a raid which completely destroyed the factory. Thenceforth, Harris normally entrusted 5 Group (the largest in the Command) with its own marking, independent of the Pathfinder Force.
Bomber Command’s biggest task just before the invasion was to help silence the enemy’s coastal batteries … most nights since 24/25 May, & for deception purposes many of them outside the intended invasion area. But as D-Day neared, so the assault stepped up. On 2/3 June, 271 bombers attacked 4 batteries in the Pas de Calais (where the Germans most expected the invasion). On 3/4 June, 135 bombers attacked batteries at Calais & Winereux. On 4/5 June, 257 a/c attacked … this time in the invasion area. On 5/6 June (when invasion fleet was under way) Bomber Command put on max. effort … 1136 a/c (1047 attacked) [inserted] 5000 + tons of bombs. [/inserted] against [deleted] the [/deleted] 10 of the main batteries on the invasion coast. Other air formations & naval bombardment also attacked there & between them 9 of the 10 batteries were made incapable of sustained fire against the invasion forces.
In the week after D-Day, B.C. flew 3500 sorties to prevent reinforcements getting to the front. In the most skilful attack, 8/9 June. Lancs of 83 Sqn lit up railway tunnel at Saumur, then marked by Mosquitos, then 25 Lancs of 617 Sqn. dropped new 12000 lb “Tallboys” [inserted] [symbol] designed by Barnes Wallis. [/inserted] blocked the tunnel & delayed the Panzers.
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[circled 3]
During the struggle in Normandy, B.C. operated in strength close to battlefield. 14/15 Jun, 337 vs troops & vehicles at Aunay & Evrecy (near Caen). 30 Jun first B.C. daylight there … 266 Lancs & Halis & a few Mosquitos & Spitfire escort bombed a road junction at Villers-Bocage from 4000’ & frustrated a panzer attack. Of B.C.’s 5 other attacks in close support the biggest was 18 Jul .. GOODWOOD (max effort) … 1056 from B.C., 863 of AEAF & 8th A.F. to help the push SE of Caen towards Falaise …. but had bad weather & unsubdued anti-tank guns stopped the offensive (only 6 miles max.). But it impressed the Germans … Von Kluge who’d just replaced Rommel, wrote to Hitler on 21 Jul:- “There is no way by which, in the face of the enemy air forces’ complete command of the air, we can discover a form of strategy which will counterbalance the annihilating effects [underlined] unless we withdraw [/underlined] from the battlefield. Whole armoured formations allotted to counter-attack were caught beneath bomb carpets of the greatest intensity so that they could be got out of the torn-up ground only by prolonged effort … The psychological effect of such a mass of bombs coming down with all the power of elemental nature on the fighting forces, especially the infantry, is a factor which has to be taken into very serious consideration. It is immaterial whether such a carpet catches good troops or bad. They are more or less annihilated, and above all their equipment is shattered ...”
(He suicided a month later when Hitler wouldn’t allow a withdrawal)
On 7/8 Aug. 1019 a/c of B.C. raided 5 points in advance of Allied troops … helping Canadian 1st Army to open the way to Falaise.
Allies had 14000 a/c against German 1000 in those weeks.
25 Aug. Paris was free. 3 Sept. Brit 2nd Army in Brussels.
Resumption of oil targets delayed by V-1 threat.
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[circled 4] Jan (1944)
Hitler had hoped to begin V-1s vs London as ‘New Year present’ but damage to ‘ski” sites, & Fiesler works at Kassel & their own trouble with getting the bomb to operate reasonably – caused set-backs. Allied bombing of railways held up delivery of launchers & bomb components.
12/13 Jun first V-1 attacks. 7 of 55 sites managed to fire total of 10 … of which 3 reached England. But they improved. Bet. 15/16 & 16/17 Jun. 144 crossed Kentish coast & 73 reached London.
Operation CROSSBOW … B.C. + AEAF + 8th A.F. attacked V-1 sites from mid June to mid-August … using 40% of B.C. strength Targets were the modified launch sites, supply depots, & ‘large sites’ (V-2 rockets [deleted] maybe [indecipherable word] [/deleted]. B.C. attacked these day & night. B.C. flew 16000 sorties, 59000 tons vs the V-1 targets only losing 131 a/c ([symbol] 1%).
By mid-Aug, less need [symbol] defences (AA & fighters redeployed & more effect … + proximity fuses [symbol] [symbol] 20% reaching target; + balloons + finally our armies overrunning the launching sites.
Every day but one from 5 to 11 Sept Harris sent out 300 or more a/c to bomb [deleted] h [/deleted] [underlined] Le Havre [/underlined] area. (We did our [underlined] first trip [/underlined] on 10 [deleted] 8 [/deleted] Sept. 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500 lb.) that day 992 sorties. Total for the week 2500 sorties, 9750 tons … the ground attack after the last air raid on 11 Sept. succeeded & only c. 50 fatalaties [sic]. [inserted] (our 3rd) [/inserted] [underlined] Boulogne [/underlined] [inserted] we dropped 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500 lb. [/inserted] had become the next objective. We were in big raid on 17 Sept. by 762 a/c, opening the way for attack by Canadian army, … garrison gave in on 22 Sept, in diary of captured German officer: “Sometimes one could despair of everything if one is at the mery [sic] of the RAF without any protection. It seems as if all fighting is useless & all sacrifices in vain.”
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[circled 5]
Germans still held Dunkirk & Ostend … it became clear that key to faster supply to our armies was Antwerp, 40 miles up R. Scheldt. Allies captured Antwerp on 4 Sept. but Germans still held river banks, South Beveland & [underlined] Walcheren Is. [/underlined] dominating its approach from the sea. Allies tried, MARKET GARDEN, airborne troops to capture bridges over Maas, Wasl & lower Rhine … a disaster, losing 1st Airborne Div’n. [symbol] Try to open the Sheldt Estuary. B.C. began attacks on Walcheren Is. in 3rd week of Sept. Hitting batteries proved difficult. Canadian army told to capture Is. … their C.O. suggested bombing might breach its sea-walls & flood some low-lying batteries. Oct 2nd .. leaflets & broadcast to locals. Oct 3. .. Pathfinder Mosquitos in waves of 30 created a big gap in wall 60’ thick at top & 204’ at base. (617 Sqn with Tallboys not needed … took ‘em home!)
Many parts of Is. now flooded, but no surrender. Further attacks on walls on Oct 7, 11 & 17. We did our [underlined] 11th op [/underlined] [inserted] on 7 OCT. [/inserted] on [underlined] Flushing dyke [/underlined] walls, 2 sticks of 7 x 1000 lb, 2 runs at fairly low alt. & achieved a good breach.
We also bombed gun batteries on [underlined] Walcheren [/underlined] Is again on Oct. 23 (14 x 1000 lb) and Oct 30 (14 x 1000 lb) … [underlined] our 13th op [/underlined].
The plan was to take Wal. Is by amphibious assault & to ‘soften it up’, B.C. raided c 277 on Oct 28; then on Oct 29 with 358 a/c, then on [underlined] Oct 30 with 110 a/c [/underlined]. [inserted] [underlined] our 15th [/underlined] [/inserted] (us). On 1 Nov. Canadian & Scottish troops began a week of hard fighting … Royal marines sailed landing craft through the gaps in the sea-walls. B.C. flew 2000+ sorties in 14 raids there, 9000 tons of bombs … only lost 11 a/c ([symbol] 0.4%).
Antwerp not used for another 19 days … time taken to clear the estuary of mines.
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[circled 6]
B.C. continued to attack towns in Germany & coastal targets in the autumn & winter of 1944.
On [inserted] 12th [/inserted] Sept. we did our [underlined] 2nd trip [/underlined] on [underlined] Stuttgart [/underlined] (1 x 4000 lb + 13 J clusters). (Our skipper had been [deleted] there [/deleted] [inserted] to [underlined] Danstadt [/underlined] [/inserted] the previous night as “2nd-dickie”). Then our [underlined] 4th [/underlined] on Bremerhaven on 18 Sept. (18 cans). & 5th on Munchen-Gladbach the next night 19 Sept (1 x 2000 lb + 12 J clusters) on which Guy Gibson as master bomber went missing (KIA). Our [underlined] 6th on [/underlined] 23 Sept. was our first of 4 raids on [underlined] Dortmund [/underlined] Ems canal “the vital link between the Ruhr & North Sea”. (14 x 1000 lb). B.C. did about 10 raids on the canal, “each time draining the canal for several miles & leaving scores of barges stranded. And this was not simply a one-off piece of temporary damage. As soon as, by the effort of 4000 (Todt) labourers, the canal was once more fully working, B.C. breached it again - & went on doing so as required until the end of the war.” (It was a fairly “dicey” target – they [underlined] knew [/underlined] we’d be coming & [underlined] where [/underlined] (where the aqueduct was above ground level.)
Sept 26. Op [symbol] 7 on Karlsruhe (18 cans)
“ 27 [symbol] 8 “ Kauserlauten (18 cans).
Oct 6 [symbol] 10. Bremen (18 cans)
Oct 5. Daylight formation (!) on Wilhelmshaven (18 cans). - - cloud obscured target & we (& others) bombed by H2S … the only time we used it on ops … mostly we were denied its use because they reckoned German fighter &/or flak could pick us up from its transmission.
Oct. 19. Op [symbol] 12. Nuremburg (1 x 2000 lb + 12 J clusters).
Oct 28 op 14 Bergen (Norway) U-boat pens … but brought bombs back due to smokescreen over target. Had to descend to near mountain tops to clear cloud – did so safely using GEE.
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[circled 7]
“In the last quarter of 1944, nearly half the tonnage dropped by B.C. was aimed at Urban areas in general rather than on more specific targets. … eg. Stuttgart, Nuremburg; [underlined] Dusseldorf (our 16th [/underlined] on Nov 2nd, 11 x 1000 + 4 x 500) Munich our [underlined] 23rd [/underlined] on Dec. 17 (1 x 4000 + 9 cans + 1 monroe). & [underlined] Munich [/underlined] again our 28th on Jan 7th (1 x 4000 + 6 J clusters).
Our [underlined] 18th [/underlined] on 11 Nov. on Harburg oil refinery (near Hamburg) caused huge fire visible 100 miles on way home (1 x 4000+ 6 x 1000 + 6 x 500 lb).
16 Nov, Our 19th a daylight on [underlined] Duren [/underlined], part of a huge effort to react to battle of bulge destroyed the town to rubble. (12 x 1000 lb).
Our 24th Gdynic .. Dec 18, on Pocket Battleship ‘Lutzow’ (also there the P.B. Admiral Von Sheer) … may have caused enough damage to have Latzow towed (?) to Swinemunde where 617 Sqn finished it off on 16/17 April ’45 (10 x 1000 SA.P.).
5 Group. HQ Grantham, then Moreton Hall, near Swinderby.
[underlined] AOC’s [/underlined] Harris 11.9.39. Bottomley 22.11.40.
Slessor 12-5-41. Coryton 25.5.42. Cochrane 28.2.43
Constantine 16.1.45.
A/C. Hampdens, Manchesters, Lancasters, Mosquitos.
[underlined] B.C. casualties, Aircrew [/underlined] Operational K. 47120
Died as POW 138
Missing now safe. 2868
POW “ “ 9784
Wounded. 4200
[underlined] Non-operational [/underlined]
K. 8090
Wounded 4200
[page break]
A brief summary of the Bache crew’s experiences after the Operation to the Dortmund-Ems Canal on 1st January 1945.
A number of entries in the 160 pages that I wrote during 1945 in the second of my three war diaries refer to events connected with, or as a result of, the Bache crew’s experiences on 1st January of that year. (The three diaries contain a total of some 420 pages which cover only some sections of my overseas service in the RAAF, mainly while travelling to and while in Canada doing my navigator training, the Operation on 1st January 1945, that period which is summarised below and my trip back home from England. Unfortunately they do not cover any of the crew’s other Operational Sorties in detail but an amount of information on these is available from other sources in my possession)
The following very short summary makes use of extracts from some of the entries in my second diary, (other than from the 17 pages which contributed to my chronicle of events directly associated with our 16th Operation on 1st January 1945). It then goes on to refer to information that I have received since from various members of our crew covering their individual moves after the crew broke up in May 1945, plus each one’s post war status.
However, for the sake of brevity, this summary does not include any detailed references to those of our Operational Sorties which we flew between 19th February and 18th April 1945 – and some other of the events in which the crew were involved between January and May of that year – but which were not as a direct consequence of the Operation on 1-1-45 These matters may (possibly?) be covered at some future date.
So, picking up this account from a point part way through January 1945 –
My additional navigational duties during 1945.
During the period early in 1945 when our crew was non-operational, while we waited for Ernie and Cec to recover from their injuries received on 1st January, I was employed in the squadron’s navigation section in various ways. Some of these duties continued after we returned to Ops – particularly on the occasions where our crew was not flying on that Op.
Amongst other things, I had been requested by the squadron navigation leader to assist him by looking after the navigation Order Book, which covered matters such as changes in navigational procedures as these came through from No 5 Group Headquarters, as well as setting up an improved system for bringing this information to the notice of the navigators on the squadron. I was also asked to devise ways of drawing attention to cases or areas in which we should take steps to improve navigational performance.
I “dreamed up” a cartoon type character of a navigator who I named “Ayling-Rouse” (who was something like a mixture of the infamous idiotic pilot character, P/O Prune and the well known ancient Chinese philosopher, Confucius) to assist with this and it seemed to be quite successful in getting the guys’ attention! – the style being recommended for use elsewhere in the Group.
I was also shown by the section’s navigation assessment officer how to assess the squadron navigator’s Operational flying log sheets and plotting charts – and learned how to get the navigators away on “cross-country” training flights etc.
I was then introduced by the squadron navigation leader to Operational navigation briefing procedures and other of his duties – and taken to some of the pre-Operation navigational planning conferences, which were held via a Group telephone hook up between
[page break]
the various squadrons just prior to our squadron Navigators Briefing for the Op. concerned.
As an upshot of all this, I was made deputy navigation leader and eventually stood in for the squadron navigation leader on occasions – including the conducting of the Navigators Briefing and the navigation specialist officer’s briefing contribution at the Main Briefing which followed, for those of No. 467 Squadron’s crews who were to participate in the daylight Bomber Command attack on “Hitler’s Hideout” at Berchtesgaden, in April 1945.
As it turned out – like so many other planned attacks – this Operation had to be “scrubbed” (ie cancelled) at the last minute because of bad weather in the target area – but was carried out a day or so later by 359 Lancasters – of which some were from other squadrons in No 5 Group and some from Nos. 1 and 8 Groups. However it so happened that Nos. 463 and 467 Squadrons were not available to go there with them on that day due to our station’s involvement in an attack on Tonsberg in Norway which required take-off later in the same afternoon.
(As a result of the additional navigation section work which I had carried out while our crew was “off Ops” waiting for the return of Cec and Ernie and also after we returned to Ops, the squadron navigation leader, when he was informed by the squadron commander early in May that the Bache crew had been selected as one of several crews for a voluntary posting from No. 467 Squadron to Transport Command, tried to convince me not to go with them. He indicated that I was being recommended for a navigation leader’s training course – and would then probably go with the squadron on its intended transfer to the Far East theatre of War.
However, because of the close crew bonds developed during our earlier Operations – and particularly as a result of the events on 1st January 1945, I decided to stick with Merv, Sam and Cec in their transfer to Transport Command.)
Ernie returns to the crew and we return to Operations.
As events turned out, Ernie was declared fit for flying after several weeks and we resumed Ops with him back with us on 19th February, as by this time we were starting to “champ upon the bit” again. However we had to make use of the substitute wireless operators – Cec still being out of action.
Merv’s promotion and his new role on the squadron.
By then Merv had been promoted to the rank of Flight Lieutenant and on occasions had acted as O/C of our “A” Flight, then as O/C “B” Flight, to which our crew was transferred some time in March.
Cec returns to the crew for our trip in “S Sugar”
According to my diary, Cec – who had been recovering from his ankle injury in the RAF hospital at Wroughton, near Crewe, (as was Ernie after they were both transferred from the hospital in Holland) – was flown back to the squadron by Merv and I when he has discharged from there on 22nd February.
However he did not stay, but went to a convalescence place near Liverpool and remained unfit for flying for the remainder of our Operational Sorties – rejoining the crew just in time for our flight to Jouvincourt in France in PO-S on 6th May to bring a planeload of ex-prisoners of war back to England.
Page 2
[page break]
End of the war in Europe and its effects on No. 467 Squadron.
Hostilities in Europe ceased on 7th May 1945 and No. 467 Squadron was one of the Bomber Command squadrons selected for transfer to the Far East theatre of War.
Part of the Bache crew transfer to Transport Command.
Cec then joined Merv, Sam (who had been commissioned in February) and I, in our transfer on 11th May from No 467 Squadron of Bomber Command to Transport Command – to which we were posted as one of five “part-crews” from Waddington.
(These crews were taken from those who were apparently classified as “nominally tour expired” – ie those who had carried out 28, but in our case 25, Operations).
We went to the recently transferred RAAF No. 466, ex No. 4 Group Bomber Command Halifax squadron at Driffield for Transport Command flying training.
Sam’s Departure from Driffield.
We thought that the bomb-aimers who were transferred with us to No. 466 Squadron would have been trained as load masters for Transport Command flying crew “cargo supervision etc”, but were informed shortly after arrival on No. 466 Squadron that it had been decided they were now not required.
So Sam was to leave us! However the blow was softened considerably when he received notification that, because of his long period of service in the RAAF (including time served as a medical orderly in ground staff in the New Guinea theatre of war), he was to be repatriated back to Australia where he would be eligible for discharge from the Service.
He was first of all transferred to the Australian Aircrew Holding Centre at Brighton, on the south coast of England – to await a draft back home aboard a troopship.
Merv, Cec and I continue Transport Command training on No. 466 Squadron.
Merv, Cec and I continued on with No. 466 Squadron at Driffield – where we picked up an Australian Second Pilot (Merv becoming Senior Pilot) – and then converted to and flew in their Halifax bombers.
We then went with the squadron when it relocated to RAF Bassingbourn in September.
From Halifaxes to Liberators.
At Bassingbourne the squadron converted from Halifaxes to 4 engine Liberator bomber type aircraft – American designed and built – and a somewhat different aircraft from the 4 engine British designed and built heavy bombers in which we had previously flown. (It was not long before I christened the Liberator “the Flying Brick” after comparing its flying characteristics with those of our beloved Lancasters).
After we had completed a number of familiarisation exercises in the UK we were scheduled to undertake training flights and later, service transport operations, between UK and India.
The end of World War II in the Far East and the disbanding of 466 Squadron.
We were about to carry out our first training flight to India when the war in the Pacific area suddenly ended – resulting in the squadron being disbanded on 26th October 1945.
Page 3
[page break]
So the four of us, including the Australian Second Pilot, were transferred to Brighton for repatriation back home and discharge from the RAAF.
Our return to Australia.
As things turned out, all the Australian members of our crew, except for Sam, who had left England much earlier – finished up finally going back to Australia together on the same ship – the Athlone Castle.
Our return by sea to Australia is another story – including us becoming involved in a Mutiny aboard the first ship, the Orion, on which we were embarked – and from which we were later disembarked again, back in England, after it broke down in the Bay of Biscay!
Return Home and Post War
Sam
Sam, who received his promotion to Flying Officer in August, returned to Sydney in NSW for discharge from the RAAF. He and his wife, Valda, now live in Wagga, N.S.W.
Merv
Merv returned to Adelaide in South Australia for discharge as a Flight Lieutenant. He and his wife, Ethel, continued to live there until he died in 1974.
Cec
Cec returned to Brisbane in Queensland, for discharge, by which time he had been promoted to the rank of Flying Officer. He married Dawn there and they continued to live in Brisbane, but later moved northwards to Caloundra, on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland – where he died from a war related complaint in 1997.
Les
Les, Jim and Ernie remained at Waddington – Les transferring to No 463 Squadron to join Jack Blair’s crew (also ex 467 Squadron, on which they had done 24 Ops prior to the end of the war in Europe). They subsequently moved with the squadron to RAF Skellingthorpe in July. Here he remained until the war in the Pacific concluded, after which No. 463 Squadron was disbanded on 25th September 1945 and all of its RAAF personnel were repatriated back to Australia. He had the rank of Pilot Officer when he was discharged.
Les married and he and his wife, Norma, now live at Seymour, Victoria.
Jim
Jim remained on No. 467 Squadron at Waddington after Merv, Sam, Cec and I left for Transport Command – and while there joined F/O C F Stewart’s crew (which had done 6 Ops on 467 Squadron prior to the end of hostilities in Europe) – as mid upper gunner.
They were posted to No. 463 Squadron, which was also located at Waddington, on 4th June – and went with this squadron when it was relocated to RAF Skellingthorpe on 3rd July.
They remained with No. 463 Squadron until it was disbanded on 25th September 1945 – after which Jim was transferred to Brighton along with all its other Australian members and then returned to Australia for discharge from the RAAF. He was promoted to the rank of Warrant Officer sometime during this period.
Jim married and he and his wife, June, live in Sydney, N.S.W.
Page 4
[page break]
Australian War Memorial
Page 1 of [missing number]
No. 467 Squadron
No. 467 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force was formed at Scampton in the United Kingdom on 7 November 1942. Although intended as an Australian squadron under Article XV of the Empire Air Training Scheme, the majority of its personnel were originally British. The replacement of these men with Australians was a gradual process and it was only towards the end of the war that the squadron gained a dominant Australian character.
The squadron relocated to Bottesford on 23 November 1942 and commenced operations on 2 January 1943. A year later it moved to Waddington, which remained the squadron’s home until the end of the war. Equipped with Avro Lancaster heavy bombers, and forming part of 5 Group, RAF Bomber Command, the squadron’s operational focus for much of the war was the strategic bombing offensive against Germany. Bombing almost entirely by night, it participated in all of the major campaigns of the offensive including the battles of the Ruhr, Berlin and Hamburg. In addition to Germany, the squadron also attacked targets in France, Italy, Norway and Czechoslovakia. On 20 June 1943, 467 was the first Bomber Command squadron to participate in the “shuttle service” where aircraft would leave the United Kingdom, bomb a European target, and then fly on to an airfield in North Africa. There they would refuel and rearm and then bomb another target on their return flight to Britain. The German port of Friederichshafen was the outbound target, and the Italian port of Spezia the inbound one.
In addition to the strategic bombing offensive, 467 Squadron was also employed in support of ground operations prior to, and during the D-Day landing, during the drive out of the Normandy beachhead in mid-1944, and during the crossing of the Rhine in March 1945. The squadron also participated in the offensive to remove the threat posed by Germany’s terror weapons and participated in raids on the weapons research facility at Peenemende, and on V1 flying bomb and V2 rocket assembly and launch sites in France.
467 Squadron’s last bombing raid of the war was an attack on the oil refinery and tankerage at Vallo in Norway. Even before the cessation of hostilities, the squadron was employed to ferry liberated Allied prisoners of war from Europe to Britain and it continued in this role after VE Day. The squadron was one of several identified to form “Tiger Force”, Bomber Command’s contribution to the strategic bombing campaign against Japan. It relocated to Metheringham to prepare for this role, but the war against Japan ended before “Tiger Force” was deployed. 467 Squadron disbanded on 30 September 1945.
Between January 1942 and April 1945, 467 Squadron flew 3,833 sorties and dropped 17,578 tons of bombs. It suffered heavily in the course of its operations – 760 personnel were killed, of whom 284 were Australian, and 11 [missing number] aircraft were lost.
References AWM 64, RAAF formation and unit rolls [2 symbols] ORMF 0118, Roll 95 [2 symbols] 1/426 December 1942 – December 1943 [2 symbols] 1/427 January – December 1944 [2 symbols] 1/428 January – October 1945 [2 symbols] 1/435A December 1942 – March 1945; Units of the Royal Australian Air Force; a concise history. Volume 3, bomber units, (Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service, 1995).; H.M. Blundell, They flew from Waddington! 463 – 467 Lancaster Squadrons, Royal Australian Air Force, (Sydney: W. Homer, 1975).
Category Unit
http://www.awm.gov.au/unit/U59451/
4/10
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
463 & 467 Squadron Notes on Ops
Description
An account of the resource
Extracts from publications giving details of all operations by 467 and 463 Squadrons from 10 September 1944 to 25 April 1945. Details include number of aircraft, target, bombloads and losses. Interspersed are details of operations carried out by Herbert Adam's crew on 467 Squadron between 10 September 1944 and 16 January 1945 which include many extracts from his diary describing operations and daily activities. Included are photographs of aircraft, crew members, air to ground views, targets, cook's tour and a map diagram. Details of 5 Group Squadrons, Extracts from books and a summary of Bache crew's experiences after operation to Dortmund Ems canal.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
H G Adams
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Seventy eight page handwritten book
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Text. Personal research
Identifier
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MAdamsHG424504-170215-01
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Australian Air Force
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending review
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Lincolnshire
France
France--Le Havre
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Pas-de-Calais
Atlantic Ocean--English Channel
Germany
Germany--Darmstadt
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Bremerhaven
Germany--Rheydt
Germany--Mönchengladbach
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Germany--Karlsruhe
Germany--Kaiserslautern
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Braunschweig
Netherlands
Netherlands--Walcheren
Netherlands--Vlissingen
Germany--Nuremberg
Norway
Norway--Bergen
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
Germany--Hamburg
Norway--Trondheim
Germany--Munich
Germany--Heilbronn
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Harburg (Landkreis)
Germany--Giessen (Hesse)
Germany--Euskirchen (Kreis)
Poland
Poland--Gdynia
Belgium
Belgium--Houffalize
France--Royan
Germany--Merseburg
Czech Republic
Czech Republic--Most
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Siegen
Germany--Dresden
Germany--Leipzig
Germany--Pforzheim
Germany--Sassnitz
Germany--Essen
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Halle an der Saale
Germany--Würzburg
Germany--Wesel (North Rhine-Westphalia)
Germany--Nordhausen (Thuringia)
Netherlands--IJmuiden
Germany--Flensburg
Norway--Tønsberg
Germany--Düren (Cologne)
Poland--Police (Województwo Zachodniopomorskie)
Czech Republic--Plzeň
Germany--Herne (Arnsberg)
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-09
1944-10
1944-11
1944-12
1945-01
1945-02
1945-03
1945-04
1944-04-05
1944-04-06
1944-06-14
1944-06-15
1944-06-30
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
463 Squadron
467 Squadron
5 Group
air gunner
aircrew
bombing
bombing of Toulouse (5/6 April 1944)
Cook’s tour
Gibson, Guy Penrose (1918-1944)
Grand Slam
H2S
killed in action
Lancaster
Mosquito
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
nose art
RAF Waddington
searchlight
tactical support for Normandy troops
Tallboy
-
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Jones, Hugh Brenton
H B Jones
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-01-11
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Jones, HB
Description
An account of the resource
17 items. The collection concerns Flight Sergeant Hugh Brenton Jones (1925 - 1944, 1866363 Royal Air Force) and contains documents and photographs. He flew operations as an air gunner with 51 Squadron and was killed 18 December 1944. <br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Rea Camus and catalogued by Barry Hunter. <br /><br />Additional information on Hugh Brenton Jones is available via the <a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/214965/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
The Crash
[page break]
[newspaper article in French with black and white photograph]
[inserted] The Engine of Hugh’s plane is now in a museum in Laroche, Belgium. [/inserted]
[page break]
This is the story that a young man from Pesche lived in 1944:
On December the 18th 1944 at about 6 a.m., I was getting up to go to work when I saw a huge fireball followed by a big explosion, a big boom.
I was quite confused: what was the matter? I thought about it and I imagined that it was a collision between two planes. When everything calmed down, I left to go to work.
About two hours later, I talked to two cyclists who were coming back from the impact place: they confirmed that there had been an aircrash but they didn’t seem to know much about it.
I decided to go there to learn more about that story. I wanted to see by myself what happened. I saw a heap of scrap iron which was spread on at least 2 km and a member of the crew was lying on the road, disembowelled. That was awful. I wandered around the crash and I saw two big pieces of the cabin. I realised it was a bomber because there were three large bombs just there and I saw an enormous wheel, bigger than me!
I supposed that there were other aviators lying around.
As I was working on a nearby field, I found the impact of the two big engines: because of the shock, they were nearly burried [sic] in the ground. the next year, the mine clearance service discovered more than twenty bombs burried [sic] in the ground. We didn’t know that and the field had been ploughed since then!
I was 18 years old at that moment. It really struck me. I think about it from time to time: it will never leave me.
Jean Bodart
8, Rue C. Denis
5660 Pesche
[inserted] Wittness [sic] to the crash [/inserted]
[page break]
[black and white photograph of man standing beside the wreckage of an aircraft]
NP 934
[page break]
La Guerre Aerienne dans la Region de Charleroi:
One of the two was the Halifax 111 NP934 piloted by Bernard Twilley. The plane carried a crew of eight men. The flight officer, Edgar Baron, on an initiation mission, flew as second pilot.
The Halifax collided, perhaps on the return journey, with one of its counterparts probably of 434 Squadron.
Twilley must have lost control of his plane which crashed at Montigny-le-Tilleul in the Bois de Prince above the hamlet of M de Bomeree.
The eight aviators perished in this crash.
The second plane would have crashed a little further away and six out of seven crew members were buried at La Fosses.
[page break]
[map]
[page break]
Your brother was one of the youngest (if not the youngest) airmen of 51 squadron to be killed during world war 2. He was an air gunner on a Halifax Mk3 Heavy Bomber – NP934 MH-V. We became involved in the research after seeing a post on an Ex-RAF notice board from an Eddy Davier who had been trying to trace the crew for over 2 years.
Eddy lives in Thuin a small village in Belgium near to where your brother’s plane came down. It all started for him when he got talking an old man in the village who told him that a bomber had crashed in the woods between Montignies-le-Tilleul and Gozee during world war 2. Eddy decided to find out as much information as he could and write a book so the young people of the town wouldn’t forget.
Here is one of his many posts searching for the crew ………….
My name is Eddy DAIVIER, 39 years old and I’m living in BELGIUM. The 18 december [sic] 1944, a bomber crashed near the town where I’m living. It was the halifax [sic] NP934 MH-V from 51 squadron. It took off from Snaith at 02.58 to ops to Duisburg in Germany but it never see Germany. It crashed into a wood south of Charleroi in Belgium. All crew members were reported killed. Flying Officer Bernard Mark TWILLEY was the pilot of this bomber and the others [sic] people died were Edgar Harold Baron, Roy Challinor HITCHEN, William John HILLEBRAND, Hugh Brenton JONES, Roberts HALL, Carl Winston CASSINI and Ricard HOLDEN. I’m not a full time writer but my wish is to write a little book to help the inhabitants of my town to never forget. I looks information about this crew or about life at Snaith between september [sic] and december [sic] 1944. I hope perhaps to find veterans who knew these people, it’s important for me to imagine who was their life.
Here are the crew and operations list.
Halifax Mk. III – NP934 MH-V
Crew.
151201 Flying Officer Bernard Mark TWILLEY (Pilot)
149632 Flying Officer Edgar Harold BARON (2nd Pilot)
1383970 Warrant Officer Harold W.J HILDEBRAND (Air Gunner)
1866363 Flight Sergeant Hugh Brenton JONES (Air Gunner)
2203456 Sergeant Roy Challinor HITCHEN (Flight Engineer)
1457899 Flight Sergeant Roberts HALL (Wireless Operator)
154240 Flying Officer Carl Winston CASSINI (Bomb Aimer)
1671139 Sergeant Richard HOLDEN (Navigator)
Operations.
10 September: Le Havre
11 September: Nordstern Oil Synthetic Plant
12 September: Munster
14 September: Wilhemshaven
15 September: Kiel
17 September: Boulogne. Crash take off. Sergeant DUNCKLEY died.
[inserted] X [/inserted] 14 October: Duisburg
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The Crash of Halifax NP934
Description
An account of the resource
A section of six pages referring to the crash of the Halifax.
Page 1 simply states 'The Crash'.
Page 2 is a report of the crash in French and an eye witness report in English by Jean Bodart.
Page 3 is a copy of a photograph which appears on page 2. A man is standing on the fuselage of the Halifax.
Page 4 is a translation of the French report on page 2.
Page 5 is a copy of a map showing five marked locations. There is one circle near Charleroi with 'Twilley - 51'.
Page 6 is a second copy of the report and research by Eddy Daivier.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Five printed sheets and one photograph
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Text
Text. Personal research
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SJonesHB1866363v10026, SJonesHB1866363v10027, SJonesHB1866363v10028, SJonesHB1866363v10029, SJonesHB1866363v10030,
SJonesHB1866363v10032
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Belgium--Charleroi
Belgium--Thuin
Germany--Duisburg
France--Le Havre
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France
Germany
Belgium
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-12-18
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
434 Squadron
51 Squadron
air gunner
aircrew
bomb aimer
crash
flight engineer
Halifax
Halifax Mk 3
navigator
pilot
RAF Snaith
wireless operator
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1400/27129/SJonesHB1866363v10010.1.jpg
a587cd92bf8a3d28a8b1a0dee326d739
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1400/27129/SJonesHB1866363v10011.1.jpg
4279e9e5e11167dd4c37ba03cae89e8a
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Jones, Hugh Brenton
H B Jones
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-01-11
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Jones, HB
Description
An account of the resource
17 items. The collection concerns Flight Sergeant Hugh Brenton Jones (1925 - 1944, 1866363 Royal Air Force) and contains documents and photographs. He flew operations as an air gunner with 51 Squadron and was killed 18 December 1944. <br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Rea Camus and catalogued by Barry Hunter. <br /><br />Additional information on Hugh Brenton Jones is available via the <a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/214965/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
Your brother was one of the youngest (if not the youngest) airmen of 51 squadron to be killed during world war 2. He was an air gunner on a Halifax Mk3 Heavy Bomber – NP934 MH-V. We became involved in the research after seeing a post on an Ex-RAF notice board from an Eddy Davier who had been trying to trace the crew for over 2 years.
Eddy lives in Thuin a small village in Belgium near to where your brother’s plane came down. It all started for him when he got talking an old man in the village who told him that a bomber had crashed in the woods between Montignies-le-Tilleul and Gozee during world war 2. Eddy decided to find out as much information as he could and write a book so the young people of the town wouldn’t forget.
Here is one of his many posts searching for the crew ………….
My name is Eddy DAIVIER, 39 years old and I’m living in BELGIUM. The 18 december [sic] 1944, a bomber crashed near the town where I’m living. It was the halifax [sic] NP934 MH-V from 51 squadron. It took off from Snaith at 02.58 to ops to Duisburg in Germany but it never see Germany. It crashed into a wood south of Charleroi in Belgium. All crew members were reported killed. Flying Officer Bernard Mark TWILLEY was the pilot of this bomber and the others [sic] people died were Edgar Harold Baron, Roy Challinor HITCHEN, William John HILLEBRAND, Hugh Brenton JONES, Roberts HALL, Carl Winston CASSINI and Ricard HOLDEN. I’m not a full time writer but my wish is to write a little book to help the inhabitants of my town to never forget. I looks information about this crew or about life at Snaith between september [sic] and december [sic] 1944. I hope perhaps to find veterans who knew these people, it’s important for me to imagine who was their life.
Here are the crew and operations list.
Halifax Mk. III – NP934 MH-V
Crew.
151201 Flying Officer Bernard Mark TWILLEY (Pilot)
149632 Flying Officer Edgar Harold BARON (2nd Pilot)
1383970 Warrant Officer Harold W.J HILDEBRAND (Air Gunner)
1866363 Flight Sergeant Hugh Brenton JONES (Air Gunner)
2203456 Sergeant Roy Challinor HITCHEN (Flight Engineer)
1457899 Flight Sergeant Roberts HALL (Wireless Operator)
154240 Flying Officer Carl Winston CASSINI (Bomb Aimer)
1671139 Sergeant Richard HOLDEN (Navigator)
Operations.
10 September: Le Havre
11 September: Nordstern Oil Synthetic Plant
12 September: Munster
14 September: Wilhemshaven
15 September: Kiel
17 September: Boulogne. Crash take off. Sergeant DUNCKLEY died.
[inserted] X [/inserted] 14 October: Duisburg
[page break]
[inserted] X [/inserted] 15 October: Wilhemshaven
[inserted] X [/inserted] 21 October: Hannover
[inserted] X [/inserted] 23 October: Essen
[inserted] X [/inserted] 25 October: Essen
[inserted] X [/inserted] 28 October: Westkapelle
[inserted] X [/inserted] 31 October [deleted] Cologne [/deleted] [inserted] KOLN [/inserted]
[inserted] X [/inserted] 06 November: Gelsenkirchen
[inserted] X [/inserted] 29 November: Essen
[inserted] X [/inserted] 30 November: Duisburg
[inserted] X [/inserted] 05 December: Soest
[inserted] X [/inserted] 06 December: Osnabruck
[inserted] X [/inserted] 12 December: [deleted] Duisburg [/deleted] [inserted] ESSEN [/inserted]
[inserted] X [/inserted] 18 December: Duisburg. Crashed 06.10
Your brother was not part of the original crew, they had had a crash previously with Halifax LV865 on the 17th September 1944 when the plane swung out of control on take off and collided with a hut used to store bomb fuses. Sgt. R H Dunkley, one of the air gunners was killed during that crash and Flying Officer Twilley and Sgt. Holden were both injured.
Less than one month later the crew were back on operations. Both of the original air gunners (Sgt R H Dunkley and Sgt L G Morris) were replaced by your brother and Warrant Officer Hildebrand. Normally crews were kept together for the duration so I can’t see a reason for replacing Sgt Morris unless he was sick or something similar.
It’s difficult to be 100 percent certain but it may be that your brother or W/O Hildebrand was a stand-in for Sgt Morris just for that fatal night. [inserted] We now know this is incorrect from the mission report. [/inserted]
Your brother joined the Squadron on the 30th April 1944 from Marston Moor (a training base) so it’s likely he was already attached to a crew and was the temporary stand-in for Sgt. Morris. Where as W/O Hildebrand joined the Squadron on the 18th September (also from Marston Moor) just after the first crash and was more likely to be the replacement for Sgt Dunkley who got killed.
The Halifax is a single pilot aircraft not dual control like the Lancaster bomber and has a usual crew of 7 not 8. Flying Officer Baron was riding “2nd Dickie” a WWII RAF term for 2nd pilot. It was normal practice for a pilot to go along with a regular crew to gain operational experience whilst his own crew was being put together.
We have still to find the families of Sgt. Richard Holden and F/Sgt Roberts Hall but we already have pictures of some of the crew members. I’ve attached 2 to this message and will send more later as I don’t want to overload your mail box.
I also discovered an article in The Record newspaper by Peter Simpson (nephew of Carl Winston Cassini) it contains a poignant letter written by the Bomb Aimer Carl Winston Cassini to be sent to his parents in case of a crash (attached). We are in touch with Cyril Cassini (Carl’s brother) in Canada and he is going to send a picture also.
Do you have a phot of your brother?
The idea is to produce a photo montage similar to the book cover and give each family a copy to remember the crew.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Report and Research on the loss of Halifax NP934
Description
An account of the resource
The report covers the loss of the Halifax with a focus on Hugh Jones. The research was undertaken by Eddy Daivier. He lists the crew and some of their operations.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two printed sheets with handwritten annotations
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Personal research
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SJonesHB1866363v10010, SJonesHB1866363v10011
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Belgium--Charleroi
Belgium--Thuin
Germany--Duisburg
France--Le Havre
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Essen
Netherlands--Veere
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Soest
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Osnabrück
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France
Germany
Belgium
Netherlands
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1944-12-18
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
51 Squadron
air gunner
aircrew
bomb aimer
flight engineer
Halifax
Halifax Mk 3
Lancaster
navigator
pilot
RAF Marston Moor
RAF Snaith
wireless operator
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1346/27116/SHughesCL1334982v10022.1.pdf
5d25b1e1d4bcc2250cda02b9e601909f
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Hughes, Clarence
Clarence Lindsay Hughes
C L Hughes
Description
An account of the resource
34 items and two sub-collections. Collection concerns Clarence Hughes' (1334982). He flew operations as a navigator with 427 Squadron. Collection contains his flying and navigators logbooks, photographs of people and aircraft, documents, correspondence, identity disks, decorations, mementos, and items of uniform. One sub-collection is photograph album covering his time training in the United States and Canada and family back in England, The other contains precis of subjects covered on the officer's advanced training school.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Christina Jones and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-06-02
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Hughes, CL
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[crest]
MINISTRY OF DEFENCE PM (AR) 1a (RAF)
Royal Air Force Personnel Management Centre
Eastern Avenue Gloucester GL4 7PN
Telephone Gloucester 415181 Ext 337
(STD Code 0452)
RAF Trunk Barnwood
Flt Lt C L Hughes DFC
Your reference
Our reference D/OAR (RAF)/13/9/2
Date
25 April 1986
Dear Sir
[underlined] COMMISSION PARCHMENTS [/underlined]
1. Thank you for your letter dated 22 April 1986
2. Action is now being taken for the preparation of your parchment. This will be sent to you as soon as possible, but in view of the various stages necessary for the completion of parchments, it is anticipated that several months will elapse before it can be made available for issue.
Yours faithfully
[signature]
D G FLEMING
for Air Secretary
[page break]
ALAN W. COOPER
RAF HISTORIAN, RESEARCHER
AUTHOR
24/4/I986.
Dear Mr Hughes,
Thank you for your letter.
I can obtain a copy of the recommendation for your DFC, this is usually two pages and has all signatures of all the people who recommended you such as CO Station Commander Group Commander and in some cases the C in C Sir Arthur Harris, who up to the time he died was a very good friend of mine.
The fee would be £8-50p plus 52p for copying and postage.
I can also get copies for all your ops with 427 which if you completed a full tour of 30 or so which I am sure you did the fee would be £I8 plus the copies and postage the copying would be about £8.
Plus this there are combat reports if you were in conflict with a fighter etc and so on as per my ad.
Yours sincerely
[signature Alan Cooper]
[page break]
[underlined] PUBLIC RECORD OFFICE [/underlined]
Reference:- AIR 2/9153 93359
[underlined] CONFIDENTIAL
NON-IMMEDIATE
RECOMMENDATION FOR HONOURS AND AWARDS [/underlined]
[ink stamp 113]
[underlined] Christian Names [/underlined] Clarence Lindsay [underlined] Surname. [/underlined] HUGHES
[underlined] Rank [/underlined] Pilot Officer [underlined] Official Number [/underlined] 14644 [indecipherable number]
[underlined] Command or Group. [/underlined] No. 6 RCAF) Group [underlined] Unit [/underlined] No. 427 (RCAF) Squadron
[underlined] Total hours flown on operations [/underlined] 198.25 hours
[underlined] Number of Sorties [/underlined] 29 1/2
Total hours flown on operations [underlined] since receipt of previous award [/underlined] N/A
Number of sorties since [underlined] receipt of previous award [/underlined] N/A
Recognition for [underlined] which recommended. [/underlined] Distinguished Flying Cross
[underlined] Appointment held [/underlined] Navigator
Particulars of meritorious service for which the recommendation is made, including date and place:-
This officer has completed 29 1/2 operational sorties against the enemy. His work has always been of the highest standard and his skill and determination as a navigator has been instrumental in assuring that his aircraft bombed the target. His fine record is considered worthy of commendation.
Date: 19th November 1943
[signature]
Signature of Squadron Commander.
(R.S. Turnbull)
Rank: Wing Commander
- [underlined] Remarks of Station Commander:- [/underlined] Pilot Officer Hughes has proven himself to be a splendid navigation officer both in the air and on the ground. He has an excellent operational record which includes successful attacks against the most heavily defended targets.
I recommend that he be awarded the [underlined] D.F.C. [/underlined]
Date: 22 Nov. 43
[signature]
Signature of Station Commander.
Rank: Group Captain
[underlined] Remarks of Air or Other Officer Commanding: [/underlined]
This navigator has now completed his first tour. I concur in the above remarks and recommendations.
Recommend the Non-Immediate Award of the D.F.C.
Date: 24th November 1943.
[signature]
(G.E. BROOKES)
Rank: Air Vice Marshal
Air Officer Commanding,
No. 6 (R.C.A.F.) Group.
[page break]
[list of sorties undertaken by Pilot Officer C.L. Hughes between 21.1.43 and 18.11.43; including date, position in aircraft, target, duration of flight and remarks]
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Correspondence concerning commission, award of Distinguished flying cross and list of operations carried out
Description
An account of the resource
Letters from air secretary branch stating that commissioning parchment was being prepared. Letter from RAF Historian researcher stating that he would obtain and send on the recommendation for his Distinguished Flying Cross and also copies of all his operations Includes the cost of the material. Photocopy of recommendation for honours and awards for Distinguished Flying Cross for Pilot Officer C L Hughes on completing 29 1/2 operations signed by squadron commander, station commander and A.O.C,. Photocopy of file with list of operations.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
D C Fleming
A W Cooper
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1986-04-25
1986-04-24
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Four pages photocopied documents
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Correspondence
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SHughesCL1334982v10022
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Canadian Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Gloucestershire
England--Gloucester
France
France--Lorient
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
Germany
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Kiel
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Mannheim
France--Saint-Nazaire
Germany--Wuppertal
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Bochum
Germany--Krefeld
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Aachen
Germany--Essen
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Munich
Germany--Kassel
France--Cannes
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943-11-19
1943-11-24
1943-11-22
1943-01-22
1943-02-16
1943-02-24
1943-03-03
1943-03-26
1943-04-04
1943-04-08
1943-04-10
1943-04-10
1943-04-14
1943-04-16
1942-12-20
1943-03-28
1943-05-29
1943-06-11
1943-06-12
1943-06-21
1943-06-24
1943-07-09
1943-07-13
1943-07-24
1943-07-25
1943-07-27
1943-07-29
1943-08-10
1943-08-23
1943-09-05
1943-09-06
1943-09-22
1943-10-03
1943-11-03
1943-11-11
1943-11-18
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Tricia Marshall
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending review
427 Squadron
6 Group
aircrew
bombing
Distinguished Flying Cross
navigator
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1346/27054/LHughesCL133498v1.2.pdf
6dbdb18ffd3e62614751663a964af340
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Hughes, Clarence
Clarence Lindsay Hughes
C L Hughes
Description
An account of the resource
34 items and two sub-collections. Collection concerns Clarence Hughes' (1334982). He flew operations as a navigator with 427 Squadron. Collection contains his flying and navigators logbooks, photographs of people and aircraft, documents, correspondence, identity disks, decorations, mementos, and items of uniform. One sub-collection is photograph album covering his time training in the United States and Canada and family back in England, The other contains precis of subjects covered on the officer's advanced training school.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Christina Jones and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-06-02
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Hughes, CL
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LHughesCL133498v1
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending review
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1942-12-20
1943-01-21
1943-02-16
1943-02-17
1943-02-24
1943-03-03
1943-03-26
1943-03-27
1943-03-28
1943-03-29
1943-04-04
1943-04-05
1943-04-08
1943-04-09
1943-04-10
1943-04-11
1943-04-14
1943-04-15
1943-04-16
1943-04-17
1943-05-29
1943-05-30
1943-06-11
1943-06-12
1943-06-13
1943-06-21
1943-06-22
1943-06-24
1943-06-25
1943-07-09
1943-07-10
1943-07-13
1943-07-14
1943-07-24
1943-07-25
1943-07-26
1943-07-27
1943-07-28
1943-07-29
1943-07-30
1943-08-10
1943-08-11
1943-08-23
1943-08-24
1943-09-05
1943-09-06
1943-09-07
1943-09-22
1943-09-23
1943-10-03
1943-10-04
1943-11-03
1943-11-11
1943-11-12
1943-11-18
1943-11-19
1943-11-20
1944-01-31
1944-02-07
1945-07-18
Title
A name given to the resource
Clarence Hughes observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book
Description
An account of the resource
Observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book for Clarence Hughes, Navigator, covering the period from 8 January 1942 to 18 July 1945. Detailing his flying training, operations flown and instructor duties. He was stationed at 32 Air Navigation School RCAF Charlottetown, 2 (Observer’s) Advanced Flying Unit RAF Millom, 20 Operational Training Unit RAF Lossiemouth, 427 Squadron RAF Croft and RAF Leeming, 19 Operational Training Unit RAF Kinloss, Empire Air Navigation School RAF Shawbury, and 21 Operational Training Unit RAF Moreton-in-Marsh. Aircraft flown in were Anson, Wellington, Halifax, Whitley, and Stirling. He flew a total of 29 and a half operations with 427 squadron. Targets were Lorient, Wilhelmshaven, Hamburg, Duisburg, Saint Nazaire, Kiel, Stuttgart, Mannheim, Wuppertal, Dusseldorf, Bochum, Krefeld, Elberfeld, Essen, Nurnberg, Berlin, Munich, Hannover, Kassel, Cannes, Ludwigshafen, and Leverkusen. His pilots on operations were Wing Commander Burnside and Flight lieutenant Rodwell.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Canada
France
Germany
Great Britain
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Atlantic Ocean--North Sea
England--Cumbria
England--Durham (County)
England--Gloucestershire
England--Shropshire
England--Yorkshire
France--Cannes
France--Lorient
France--Saint-Nazaire
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Bochum
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Elberfeld
Germany--Essen
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Kassel
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Krefeld
Germany--Leverkusen
Germany--Ludwigshafen am Rhein
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Munich
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Wuppertal
Prince Edward Island--Charlottetown
Scotland--Moray
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Mike Connock
1659 HCU
19 OTU
20 OTU
21 OTU
427 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
bombing of Hamburg (24-31 July 1943)
Halifax
Heavy Conversion Unit
navigator
Operational Training Unit
RAF Croft
RAF Kinloss
RAF Leeming
RAF Lossiemouth
RAF Millom
RAF Moreton in the Marsh
RAF Shawbury
RAF Torquay
Stirling
training
Wellington
Whitley
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1321/26954/LLatimerJF1551478v1.1.pdf
63e5be776c4ee948864e178c5d15224f
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Latimer, James Ferguson
J F Latimer
Description
An account of the resource
Four items. An oral history interview with Warrant Officer Jim Latimer (1923 - 2020, 1551478 Royal Air Force) his log book, and photographs. He flew operations as a bomb aimer with 102 and 462 Squadrons.
The collection was catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2019-09-28
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Latimer, JF
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
J F Latimer’s air bomber’s flying log book covering the period from 9 March 1943 to 8 March 1945. Detailing his flying training and operations flown as air bomber. He was stationed at RCAF Fingal (4 B&GS), RCAF Port Albert (31 ANS), RCAF Jarvis (1 B&GS), RAF Skaebrae (1476 Advanced Ship Recognition Course), RAF Mona (8 OAFU), RAF Moreton-in-Marsh (21 OTU), RAF Marston Moor (1652 HCU), RAF Pocklington (102 Squadron), RAF Driffield and RAF Foulsham (462 RAAF Squadron), Aircraft flown in were Anson, Bolingbroke, Wellington and Halifax. He flew four daylight and four night-time operations with 102 Squadron and five daylight and twenty two night-time operations with 462 RAAF Squadron, a total of 35. Targets were Foret de Nieppe, Villers Bocage, De Bruyere, Somain, Brunswick, Eindhoven, Sterkrade, Wemars Capelle, Soesterberg, Le Havre, Gelsenkirchen, Nordstein, Kiel, Boulogne, Duisburg, Wilhelmshaven, Hanover, Essen, Ostkapelle, Domberg, Soest, Hamburg, Sylt, Koblentz, Bonn, Mainz, Rheine, Heilbronn, Neuss, Kaiserlautern, Mannheim and Dortmund. <span>His pilots on operations were </span>Flight Sergeant Mitchell, Flying Officer Sanderson, Squadron Leader Jackson, Flying officer Wther [?], Flying Officer Boyd, Flying Officer Anderson, Flying Officer McIndle and Flight Lieutenant James. This item was sent to the IBCC Digital Archive already in digital form. No better quality copies are available.
Title
A name given to the resource
J F Latimer’s Royal Canadian Air Force Flying Log Book for Aircrew other than Pilot
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LLatimerJF1551478v1
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Terry Hancock
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One booklet
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Australian Air Force
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1943
1944
1944-07-28
1944-07-30
1944-08-03
1944-08-07
1944-08-08
1944-08-11
1944-08-12
1944-08-13
1944-08-15
1944-08-18
1944-08-19
1944-08-25
1944-09-03
1944-09-09
1944-09-11
1944-09-12
1944-09-13
1944-09-15
1944-09-16
1944-10-15
1944-10-18
1944-10-21
1944-10-23
1944-10-25
1944-10-28
1944-10-29
1944-12-08
1944-12-09
1945-01-01
1945-01-16
1945-01-17
1945-01-21
1945-01-22
1945-01-28
1945-02-18
1945-02-22
1945-02-23
1945-03-01
1945-03-02
1945-03-03
1945-03-05
1945-03-06
1945-03-08
1945-03-09
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Canada
France
Germany
Great Britain
Netherlands
Atlantic Ocean--Baltic Sea
England--Gloucestershire
England--Yorkshire
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Dieppe
France--Le Havre
France--Somain
France--Villers-Bocage (Calvados)
Germany--Bonn
Germany--Braunschweig
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Essen
Germany--Freising
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Heilbronn
Germany--Kaiserslautern
Germany--Kiel
Germany--Koblenz
Germany--Mainz (Rhineland-Palatinate)
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Neuss
Germany--Oberhausen (Düsseldorf)
Germany--Rheine
Germany--Soest
Germany--Sylt
Netherlands--Eindhoven
Netherlands--Oostkapelle
Netherlands--Soesterberg
Netherlands--Vlissingen
Ontario
Wales--Anglesey
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Germany--Freising
100 Group
102 Squadron
1652 HCU
21 OTU
462 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
Air Observers School
aircrew
Anson
Bolingbroke
bomb aimer
bombing
Bombing and Gunnery School
bombing of Luftwaffe night-fighter airfields (15 August 1944)
Halifax
Halifax Mk 3
Heavy Conversion Unit
Normandy campaign (6 June – 21 August 1944)
Operational Training Unit
RAF Driffield
RAF Foulsham
RAF Marston Moor
RAF Mona
RAF Moreton in the Marsh
RAF Pocklington
RCAF Fingal
tactical support for Normandy troops
training
Wellington
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/258/26884/LVaseyJ179596v1.2.pdf
3ae4de7621904346299103153a2c4eb7
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Ganney, Keith
Keith Ganney
K Ganney
Description
An account of the resource
23 items. An oral history interview with Flying Officer Keith Ganney (b. 1922, 1324929 Royal Air Force), his log books, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a bomb aimer with 57 Squadron.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Keith Ganney and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-03-01
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Ganney, K
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
J Vasey’s pilot’s log book
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
This content is available under a CC BY-NC 4.0 International license (Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0). It has been published ‘as is’ and may contain inaccuracies or culturally inappropriate references that do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the University of Lincoln or the International Bomber Command Centre. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LVaseyJ179596v1
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Great Britain. Royal Air Force
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Log book and record book
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Nine photocopied sheets
Description
An account of the resource
Pilot’s flying log book for J Vasey covering the period from 20 July 1942 to 28 April 1946. Detailing his flying training and operations flown as pilot. He was stationed at RAF Cambridge (22 EFTS) RCAF Neepawa (35 EFTS), RCAF Weyburn (41 SFTS), RAF Shellingford (3 EFTS), RAF Church Lawford (18 PAFU), RAF Fiskerton (1514 BAT Flight), RAF Silverstone (17 OTU), RAF Swinderby (1654 HCU), RAF East Kirkby (57 Squadron), RAF Syerston (5 LFS), RAF Finningley (BCIS), RAF Wigsley (1654 HCU), RAF Welford (1336 TSCU), RAF Palam (353 Squadron), RAF Meiktelia (10 Squadron). He had two Red Endorsements. Aircraft flown in were Tiger Moth, Anson, Oxford, Wellington, Halifax, Lancaster and Dakota.
He flew a total of 30 operations with 57 Squadron (24 by night and six by day), targets were Darmstadt, Koningsberg, Bergoneuse, Stuttgart, Bremerhaven, Rheydt, Munster, Karlsruhe, Kaiserlauten, Bremen, Brunswick, Nuremburg, Dusseldorf, Dortmund-Ems Canal, Hamburg, Gravenhorst, Trondheim, Munich, Heinbach dam, Oslo, Royan, Leuna, Siegen, Cologne, Wilhelmshaven, Veerk, Homburg, Duren and Ladbergen. His pilot for his first 'second dickie' operation was Squadron Leader Fairburn. After December 1944 he instructed and then flew transport operations in the Far East.
This item was sent to the IBCC Digital Archive already in digital form: no better quality copies are available.
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1944-08-25
1944-08-26
1944-08-27
1944-08-29
1944-08-30
1944-08-31
1944-09-12
1944-09-13
1944-09-17
1944-09-18
1944-09-19
1944-09-20
1944-09-23
1944-09-24
1944-09-26
1944-09-27
1944-09-28
1944-10-05
1944-10-06
1944-10-07
1944-10-11
1944-10-14
1944-10-15
1944-10-19
1944-10-20
1944-11-01
1944-11-02
1944-11-03
1944-11-06
1944-11-07
1944-11-11
1944-11-12
1944-11-16
1944-11-21
1944-11-22
1944-11-23
1944-11-26
1944-11-27
1944-12-08
1944-12-10
1944-12-29
1944-12-30
1945-01-01
1945-01-04
1945-01-05
1945-01-14
1945-01-15
1945-02-01
1945-02-02
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
France
Germany
Great Britain
Norway
France--Royan
Germany--Karlsruhe
Germany--Homburg (Saarland)
Germany--Braunschweig
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Bremerhaven
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Darmstadt
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Germany--Düren (Cologne)
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Hörstel
Germany--Kaiserslautern
Germany--Ladbergen
Germany--Leuna
Germany--Munich
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Rheydt
Germany--Siegen
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
Norway--Oslo
Norway--Trondheim
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Terry Hancock
1654 HCU
17 OTU
57 Squadron
Advanced Flying Unit
aircrew
Anson
bombing
C-47
Distinguished Flying Cross
Flying Training School
Halifax
Heavy Conversion Unit
Lancaster
Lancaster Finishing School
Operational Training Unit
Oxford
pilot
RAF Church Lawford
RAF East Kirkby
RAF Finningley
RAF Fiskerton
RAF Silverstone
RAF Swinderby
RAF Syerston
RAF Wigsley
Tiger Moth
training
Wellington