1
25
24
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1426/38035/LHadfieldL1066643v1.1.pdf
911ae61e668869a9468326770366dacb
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
Donnelly, Margaret
M Donnelly
Hadfield, Leonard
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
2015-07-01
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
Donnelly, M
Description
An account of the resource
24 items. The collection concerns Flying Officer Leonard Hadfield (184057 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book and documents. He flew operations as a wireless operator/air gunner with 59 Squadron.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Margaret Donnelly 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
L Hadfield's observer's and air gunner's flying log 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. Coastal 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
One booklet
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending review
Description
An account of the resource
<p>Observer’s and air gunner’s flying log book for L Hadfield, wireless operator/air gunner, covering the period from 14 March 1941 to 6 May 1945. Detailing his flying training, operations flown and instructor duties. He was stationed at RAF Yatesbury, RAF Prestwick, RAF Pembrey, RAF Thornaby, RAF North Coates, RAF Thorney Island, RAF St Eval, RAF Chivenor, RAF Aldergrove, RAF ReykJavik. RAF Ballykelly and RAF Nassau. Aircraft flown in were Dominie, Proctor, Botha, Blenheim, Anson, Hudson, Liberator, Fortress, Commando and Dakota. He flew 40 operations with 59 Squadron comprising of anti-submarine patrol and convoy escort duties. His pilot on operations was Flight Lieutenant Moran.</p>
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. Royal Air Force
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Great Britain
Atlantic Ocean
Bahamas--Nassau
England--Devon
England--Lincolnshire
England--Wiltshire
England--Yorkshire
Iceland--Reykjavík
Northern Ireland--Londonderry (County)
Northern Ireland--Belfast
Scotland--Ayrshire
Wales--Carmarthenshire
England--Sussex
England--Cornwall (County)
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Mike Connock
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
LHadfieldL1066643v1.1
Air Gunnery School
aircrew
Anson
B-17
B-24
Blenheim
Botha
C-47
Dominie
Hudson
Ju 88
Operational Training Unit
Proctor
RAF Chivenor
RAF North Coates
RAF Pembrey
RAF Prestwick
RAF St Eval
RAF Thornaby
RAF Thorney Island
RAF Yatesbury
training
wireless operator / air gunner
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/934/36538/MLovattP1821369-190903-74-01.1.pdf
fb8bdc0a3359bad330631a99725ecf91
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/934/36538/MLovattP1821369-190903-74-02.1.2.pdf
518e2b514f18dba39e9302770bce90ba
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
Lovatt, Peter
Dr Peter Lovatt
P Lovatt
Description
An account of the resource
117 items. An oral history interview with Peter Lovatt (b.1924, 1821369 Royal Air Force), his log book, documents, and photographs. The collection also contains two photograph albums. He flew 42 operations as an air gunner on 223 Squadron flying B-24s. <br /><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1338">Album One</a><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/2135">Album Two</a><br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Nina and Peter Lovatt 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
2017-09-27
2019-09-03
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
Lovatt, P
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 Offensive Phase
Volume Two of Two
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Peter Lovatt
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Norway--Trondheim
France--Brest
Russia (Federation)
England--Hartland
England--Beer Head
Europe--Elbe River
England--Dover
England--Folkestone
England--London
France--Bruneval
France--Pas-de-Calais
Germany--Lübeck
Germany--Rostock
England--Norwich
England--Cheadle (Staffordshire)
England--Salcombe
England--Sidmouth
France--Cherbourg
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
France--Dunkerque
France--Cassel
England--Salisbury
Russia (Federation)--Kola Peninsula
Russia (Federation)--Arkhangelʹskai︠a︡ oblastʹ
Germany--Berlin
Poland--Szczecin
France--Desvres
France--Arcachon
France--Nantes
France--Chartres
France--Reims
England--Swanage
England--Malvern
England--Plymouth
France--Lorient
England--Lincoln
Scotland--Edinburgh
England--Hull
England--London
England--Bristol
France--Montdidier (Hauts-de-France)
England--Guildford
France--Poix-du-Nord
Germany--Mannheim
Czech Republic--Pilsen Basin
England--Harpenden
France--Morlaix
Spain--Lugo
Spain--Seville
England--Radlett (Hertfordshire)
Germany--Cologne
France--Boulogne-Billancourt
Germany--Rostock
Germany--Essen
Germany--Schleswig-Holstein
Belgium--Liège
Germany--Bremen
England--High Wycombe
Germany--Osnabrück
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Wilhelmshaven
England--Sizewell
Germany--Peenemünde
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Munich
Germany--Kassel
England--Crowborough
England--Huddersfield
Netherlands--Den Helder
England--Mundesley
Germany--Schweinfurt
Europe--Baltic Sea Region
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
Germany--Braunschweig
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Wolfenbüttel
Germany--Magdeburg
France--Limoges
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Leipzig
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Munich
Germany--Schweinfurt
Germany--Augsburg
France--Yvelines
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Kiel
Poland--Poznań
France--Dieppe
Turkey--Gallipoli
Egypt--Alamayn
Egypt--Cairo
Morocco
Algeria
Italy--Sicily
England--Ventnor
England--Beachy Head
France--Abbeville
France--Somme
France--Seine River
England--Southampton
England--Portsmouth
Scotland--Firth of Forth
Iceland
England--Brighton
France--Normandy
France--Cherbourg
England--Littlehampton
England--Portland Harbour
France--Amiens
Netherlands--Arnhem
France--Normandy
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
France--Le Havre
France--Arromanches-les-Bains
France--Bayeux
Belgium--Wenduine
France--Beauvais
England--Ditchling
England--Henfield (West Sussex)
England--Canterbury
England--Crowborough
England--Dover
England--Chiswick
Netherlands--Hague
Sweden
Belgium--Antwerp
Germany--Aachen
Germany--Trier
Germany--Siegfried Line
Netherlands--New Maas River
Netherlands--Waal River
Russia (Federation)--Kaliningrad (Kaliningradskai︠a︡ oblastʹ)
Germany--Darmstadt
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Braunschweig
Netherlands--Walcheren
Germany--Bremen
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Bochum
Germany--Cologne
Europe--Ardennes
Belgium--Bastogne
Germany--Leuna
Germany--Essen
Germany--Ludwigshafen am Rhein
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Ulm
Rhine River Valley
Germany--Mittelland Canal
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Castrop-Rauxel
Germany--Hannover
Belgium--Houffalize
Germany--Neuss
Germany--Grevenbroich
Germany--Dülmen
Germany--Dresden
Germany--Leipzig
Germany--Magdeburg
Germany--Bonn
Germany--Kamen
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Germany--Chemnitz
Germany--Dessau (Dessau)
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Kiel
England--Coventry
Italy
Poland
France
Great Britain
Egypt
North Africa
Germany
Belgium
Czech Republic
Netherlands
Norway
Russia (Federation)
Spain
Turkey
Europe--Frisian Islands
England--Milton Keynes
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Devon
England--Dorset
England--Gloucestershire
England--Hampshire
England--Herefordshire
England--Kent
England--Middlesex
England--Norfolk
England--Staffordshire
England--Suffolk
England--Surrey
England--Sussex
England--Wiltshire
England--Worcestershire
England--Yorkshire
England--Lincolnshire
England--Warwickshire
Russia (Federation)--Poli︠a︡rnyĭ (Murmanskai︠a︡ oblastʹ)
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. Coastal Command
Royal Navy
United States Army Air Force
Wehrmacht. Luftwaffe
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
178 printed pages
Description
An account of the resource
A continuation of Peter's thesis on electronic warfare during the war.
Language
A language of the resource
eng
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
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MLovattP1821369-190903-74-01
1 Group
100 Group
101 Squadron
109 Squadron
141 Squadron
169 Squadron
171 Squadron
192 Squadron
199 Squadron
214 Squadron
218 Squadron
223 Squadron
239 Squadron
3 Group
4 Group
462 Squadron
5 Group
617 Squadron
8 Group
aircrew
B-17
B-24
Beaufighter
Bennett, Donald Clifford Tyndall (1910-1986)
Chamberlain, Neville (1869-1940)
crash
Defiant
Do 217
Fw 190
Gee
Gneisenau
Goering, Hermann (1893-1946)
H2S
Halifax
Halifax Mk 3
Hampden
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
He 111
Hitler, Adolf (1889-1945)
Hudson
Ju 88
Lancaster
Me 110
Me 410
mine laying
Morse-keyed wireless telegraphy
Mosquito
navigator
Oboe
Operational Training Unit
P-51
Pathfinders
radar
RAF Defford
RAF Downham Market
RAF Farnborough
RAF Foulsham
RAF Little Snoring
RAF North Creake
RAF Northolt
RAF Oulton
RAF Prestwick
RAF Sculthorpe
RAF St Athan
RAF Swannington
RAF Tempsford
RAF Upper Heyford
RAF Uxbridge
RAF West Raynham
RAF Wittering
Scharnhorst
Stalin, Joseph (1878-1953)
Stirling
Tirpitz
training
Typhoon
V-1
V-2
V-weapon
Wellington
Window
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/934/36457/BLovattPHastieRv2.1.pdf
295406378e70aa4d2aeb43baeaddc085
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
Lovatt, Peter
Dr Peter Lovatt
P Lovatt
Description
An account of the resource
117 items. An oral history interview with Peter Lovatt (b.1924, 1821369 Royal Air Force), his log book, documents, and photographs. The collection also contains two photograph albums. He flew 42 operations as an air gunner on 223 Squadron flying B-24s. <br /><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1338">Album One</a><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/2135">Album Two</a><br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Nina and Peter Lovatt 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
2017-09-27
2019-09-03
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
Lovatt, P
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
Hastie DFC: The Life and Times of a Wartime Pilot
Description
An account of the resource
A biography of Roy Hastie.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Peter Lovatt
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2003-10
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
United States
Rhode Island--Quonset Point Naval Air Station
Bahamas--Nassau
New York (State)--New York
Bahamas--New Providence Island
Great Britain
England--Harrogate
Scotland--Perth
Scotland--Glasgow
England--Warrington
England--Blackpool
Luxembourg
France
Belgium
Netherlands
France--Dunkerque
England--Dover
England--Grantham
England--Torquay
Wales--Aberystwyth
Iceland
Greenland
Sierra Leone
Russia (Federation)--Murmansk
Singapore
France--Saint-Malo
Denmark
Sweden
Germany--Lübeck
Netherlands--Ameland Island
England--Grimsby
Germany--Helgoland
Netherlands--Rotterdam
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
England--Lundy Island
Germany--Cologne
North Carolina
North Carolina--Cape Hatteras
Aruba
Curaçao
Iceland--Reykjavík
Greenland--Narsarssuak
Canada
Québec--Montréal
Rhode Island
New York (State)--Buffalo
Gulf of Mexico
Caribbean Sea
Virginia
Florida--Miami
Cuba--Guantánamo Bay Naval Base
Puerto Rico--San Juan
Cuba
Florida--West Palm Beach
Cuba--Caimanera
India
Sierra Leone--Freetown
Jamaica
Jamaica--Kingston
Jamaica--Montego Bay
Virginia--Norfolk
Washington (D.C.)
Newfoundland and Labrador
Northern Ireland--Limavady
England--Chatham (Kent)
Newfoundland and Labrador--Gander
Gibraltar
England--Leicester
Massachusetts--Boston
Egypt--Alamayn
Algeria--Algiers
Algeria--Oran
Algeria--Bejaïa
Algeria--Annaba
Italy--Sicily
England--Milton Keynes
Germany--Essen
England--Dunwich
Europe--Scheldt River
England--Sizewell
Germany--Hamburg
England--Kent
Germany--Stuttgart
England--Crowborough
Netherlands--Hague
England--Peterborough
England--Bristol
Germany--Homburg (Saarland)
Belgium--Brussels
Germany--Bochum
Germany--Dortmund-Ems Canal
Germany--Wanne-Eickel
Belgium--Liège
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Aschaffenburg
Germany--Castrop-Rauxel
Germany--Mittelland Canal
Germany--Aachen
Germany--Karlsruhe
Germany--Neuss
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Duisburg
Germany--Hagen (Arnsberg)
Germany--Leuna
Germany--Osnabrück
Germany--Ludwigshafen am Rhein
Germany--Ulm
Germany--Munich
Poland--Szczecin
France--Ardennes
Germany--Bonn
Belgium--Houffalize
Germany--Mannheim
Germany--Grevenbroich
Germany--Dülmen
France--Metz
Germany--Magdeburg
Germany--Zeitz
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
England--Dungeness
Germany--Mainz (Rhineland-Palatinate)
Germany--Wiesbaden
Germany--Dresden
Germany--Leipzig
Germany--Koblenz
Germany--Chemnitz
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Münster in Westfalen
Germany--Worms
Germany--Pforzheim
Germany--Darmstadt
Europe--Lake Constance
Germany--Bergkamen
Germany--Dessau (Dessau)
Germany--Wesel (North Rhine-Westphalia)
France--Aube
Germany--Augsburg
England--Feltwell
England--Croydon
Norway--Oslo
Sweden--Stockholm
Czech Republic--Prague
Italy--Florence
Portugal--Lisbon
Monaco--Monte-Carlo
France--Boulogne-sur-Mer
Netherlands--Venlo
Netherlands--Amsterdam
France--Paris
France--Lyon
France--Digne
France--Nevers
France--Lille
Norway--Ålesund
France--Saint-Omer (Pas-de-Calais)
France--Bailleul (Nord)
Belgium--Ieper
Belgium--Mesen
France--Cambrai
France--Somme
France--Arras
France--Lens
France--Calais
Germany--Emden (Lower Saxony)
Netherlands--Vlissingen
France--Brest
France--Lorient
France--La Pallice
Egypt--Suez
Germany--Berlin
Yemen (Republic)--Aden
Cyprus
Turkey--Gallipoli
Black Sea--Dardanelles Strait
Turkey--İmroz Island
Turkey--İzmir
Greece--Lesbos (Municipality)
Greece--Thasos Island
Greece--Chios (Municipality)
Greece--Thasos
Bulgaria
Turkey--Istanbul
Europe--Macedonia
Greece--Kavala
Kenya--Nairobi
Africa--Rhodesia and Nyasaland
Tanzania
Sudan
Eritrea
Ethiopia
Sudan--Kassalā
Eritrea--Asmara
Yemen (Republic)--Perim Island
Ethiopia--Addis Ababa
Sudan--Khartoum
Ghana--Takoradi
Libya--Cyrenaica
Libya--Tobruk
Egypt--Cairo
Iraq
Greece--Crete
Libya--Tripolitania
Tunisia--Mareth Line
Libya--Tripoli
Tunisia--Qaṣrayn
Tunisia--Medenine
Italy--Pantelleria Island
Malta
Italy--Licata
Italy--Brindisi
Italy--Foggia
Italy--Cassino
Italy--Sangro River
Italy--Termoli
Yugoslavia
Croatia--Split
Croatia--Vis Island
Italy--Loreto
Italy--Pescara
Trinidad and Tobago--Trinidad
North America--Saint Lawrence River
Newfoundland and Labrador--Happy Valley-Goose Bay
Bahamas
Florida
Italy
Poland
Massachusetts
New York (State)
Algeria
Tunisia
Libya
Egypt
North Africa
Ontario
Québec
Germany
Croatia
Czech Republic
Ghana
Greece
Kenya
Norway
Russia (Federation)
Turkey
Yemen (Republic)
Portugal
Trinidad and Tobago
North America--Niagara Falls
France--Reims
Europe--Frisian Islands
Germany--Monheim (North Rhine-Westphalia)
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Norfolk
England--Suffolk
England--Gloucestershire
England--Lancashire
England--Leicestershire
England--Lincolnshire
Germany--Oberhausen (Düsseldorf)
Greece--Thessalonikē
Germany--Herne (Arnsberg)
Atlantic Ocean--Kattegat (Baltic Sea)
Libya--Banghāzī
Russia (Federation)--Arkhangelʹskai︠a︡ oblastʹ
Great Britain Miscellaneous Island Dependencies--Jersey
Virginia--Hampton Roads (Region)
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
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
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Memoir
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
142 printed sheets
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
BLovattPHastieRv2
Conforms To
An established standard to which the described resource conforms.
Pending text-based transcription
1 Group
100 Group
101 Squadron
157 Squadron
2 Group
214 Squadron
223 Squadron
3 Group
4 Group
6 Group
8 Group
85 Squadron
88 Squadron
air gunner
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
B-17
B-24
B-25
bale out
Beaufighter
Bismarck
Botha
C-47
Chamberlain, Neville (1869-1940)
Churchill, Winston (1874-1965)
crash
crewing up
Distinguished Flying Cross
entertainment
evacuation
Flying Training School
Gee
Gneisenau
Goldfish Club
ground personnel
H2S
Halifax
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
Harvard
He 111
Heavy Conversion Unit
Hitler, Adolf (1889-1945)
Hudson
Hurricane
Initial Training Wing
Ju 88
Lancaster
love and romance
Martinet
Me 109
Me 110
mine laying
Mosquito
Mussolini, Benito (1883-1945)
navigator
Nissen hut
Oboe
Operational Training Unit
Oxford
Pathfinders
pilot
Proctor
radar
RAF Banff
RAF Catfoss
RAF Catterick
RAF Chedburgh
RAF Cranwell
RAF Dishforth
RAF Farnborough
RAF Horsham St Faith
RAF Kinloss
RAF Leuchars
RAF Lichfield
RAF Lyneham
RAF Manston
RAF North Coates
RAF Oulton
RAF Padgate
RAF Prestwick
RAF Riccall
RAF Silloth
RAF South Cerney
RAF St Eval
RAF Thornaby
RAF Thorney Island
RAF Windrush
RAF Woodbridge
Roosevelt, Franklin Delano (1882-1945)
Scharnhorst
Spitfire
sport
Stirling
Swordfish
Tiger Moth
Tirpitz
training
V-1
V-2
V-weapon
Whitley
Window
wireless operator
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/934/36456/BLovattPHastieRv1.2.pdf
9b3858b8c21f871c9674fb0bb2df1994
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
Lovatt, Peter
Dr Peter Lovatt
P Lovatt
Description
An account of the resource
117 items. An oral history interview with Peter Lovatt (b.1924, 1821369 Royal Air Force), his log book, documents, and photographs. The collection also contains two photograph albums. He flew 42 operations as an air gunner on 223 Squadron flying B-24s. <br /><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/1338">Album One</a><br /><a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/2135">Album Two</a><br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Nina and Peter Lovatt 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
2017-09-27
2019-09-03
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
Lovatt, P
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
Hastie DFC: The Life and Times of a Wartime Pilot
Description
An account of the resource
An incomplete biography of Roy Hastie. Only pages 1 to 46, 104 to 106, 128 to 133 and 34 additional unnumbered pages are included.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Peter Lovatt
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
United States
Rhode Island--Quonset Point Naval Air Station
Bahamas--Nassau
New York (State)--New York
Bahamas--New Providence Island
England--Harrogate
Scotland--Perth
Scotland--Glasgow
Scotland--Glasgow
England--Warrington
England--Blackpool
Luxembourg
France
Belgium
Netherlands
France--Dunkerque
England--Dover
England--Grantham
England--Torquay
Wales--Aberystwyth
Iceland
Greenland
Sierra Leone
Russia (Federation)--Murmansk
Singapore
France--Saint-Malo
Denmark
Sweden
Germany--Lübeck
Netherlands--Ameland Island
England--Grimsby
Germany--Helgoland
Netherlands--Rotterdam
Atlantic Ocean--Bay of Biscay
England--Lundy Island
Germany--Cologne
North Carolina
North Carolina--Cape Hatteras
Aruba
Curaçao
Iceland--Reykjavík
Greenland--Narsarssuak
Canada
Québec--Montréal
Rhode Island
New York (State)--Buffalo
Gulf of Mexico
Caribbean Sea
Virginia
Florida--Miami
Cuba--Guantánamo Bay Naval Base
Puerto Rico--San Juan
Cuba
Florida--West Palm Beach
Cuba--Caimanera
India
Sierra Leone--Freetown
Jamaica
Jamaica--Kingston
Jamaica--Montego Bay
Virginia--Norfolk
Québec--Montréal
Washington (D.C.)
Newfoundland and Labrador
Trinidad and Tobago--Trinidad
North America--Saint Lawrence River
Newfoundland and Labrador--Happy Valley-Goose Bay
Bahamas
Florida
New York (State)
Great Britain
Ontario
Québec
Germany
Russia (Federation)
Trinidad and Tobago
North America--Niagara Falls
Europe--Frisian Islands
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Devon
England--Kent
England--Lancashire
England--Lincolnshire
Atlantic Ocean--Kattegat (Baltic Sea)
Russia (Federation)--Arkhangelʹskai︠a︡ oblastʹ
Virginia--Hampton Roads (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. Coastal Command
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Personal research
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
88 printed sheets
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
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
BLovattPHastieRv1
8 Group
air gunner
aircrew
anti-aircraft fire
B-24
B-25
Beaufighter
Bismarck
C-47
Churchill, Winston (1874-1965)
crash
crewing up
Distinguished Flying Cross
evacuation
Flying Training School
Gee
Gneisenau
Goldfish Club
ground personnel
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
Harvard
Hitler, Adolf (1889-1945)
Hudson
Initial Training Wing
navigator
Nissen hut
Oboe
Operational Training Unit
Oxford
Pathfinders
pilot
radar
RAF Bircham Newton
RAF Catterick
RAF Cranwell
RAF Kinloss
RAF Leuchars
RAF North Coates
RAF Odiham
RAF Oulton
RAF Padgate
RAF Prestwick
RAF South Cerney
RAF St Eval
RAF Thornaby
RAF Thorney Island
RAF Windrush
Roosevelt, Franklin Delano (1882-1945)
Scharnhorst
Spitfire
Tiger Moth
Tirpitz
training
V-1
V-2
V-weapon
Whitley
Window
wireless operator
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35847/PPickF1701.1.jpg
fc889de361000824d5e2e2c1babedcd6
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35847/PPickF1702.1.jpg
4afb8c2c4a299f96bff650906b0adb88
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35847/PPickF1703.1.jpg
8675cfdb9743a025e004db0494f6428b
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35847/PPickF1704.1.jpg
7a7582ca55ac899e1573b091e3fdbbf4
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35847/PPickF1705.1.jpg
396dc58cc26255ce1ba60ccc0978cbb6
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35847/PPickF1706.1.jpg
69cc980f0488bfdeb7bab26eaad89890
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35847/PPickF1707.1.jpg
7a58e9829799ac88cbd0c3eaafd3806e
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
Pick, Erick
Frederick Pick
F Pick
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
2017-06-26
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
Pick, F
Description
An account of the resource
21 items. The collection concerns Frederick Pick (1685075 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 57 and 227 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Gillian M Christian 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
RAF parade Reykavik
Description
An account of the resource
Seven photographs all show the same event, a parade for VIPs on an airfield.
The first shows a party of servicemen with rifles escorting an event taking place in front of a tall flag pole. The event concerning some civilian VIPs, one in a top hat. Storage buildings in the back ground as are other buildings and a parked aircraft.
The second reflects the same scene.
The third is the same scene from a different angle showing a flag being raised, armed airmen are at the present, officers are saluting. Part of a civilian car is in the foreground, what could be the aircraft control tower behind the parade and some guests to one side.
Fourth shows armed party marching.
Fifth shows the flagpole after the ceremony with the national flag flying, a group of guests and two civilian individuals with a car in the foreground. Airfield buildings in the distance.
Sixth shows the flag pole with the armed escort from a different angle, from behind the two rows of guests. The RAF ensign is flying.
The seventh shows the flight of RAF personnel forming up for the parade in front of some buildings, other buildings in the distance.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
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
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Seven b/w photographs
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PPickF1701, PPickF1702, PPickF1703, PPickF1704,
PPickF1705, PPickF1706, PPickF1707
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
control tower
hangar
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35846/PPickF1708.2.jpg
46d089142dd0a782c713408a1d48f609
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35846/PPickF1709.2.jpg
a8e965c95a377caecdf996dbea2f0557
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
Pick, Erick
Frederick Pick
F Pick
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
2017-06-26
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
Pick, F
Description
An account of the resource
21 items. The collection concerns Frederick Pick (1685075 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 57 and 227 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Gillian M Christian 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/.
Description
An account of the resource
Two photographs of a B 24 Liberator converted for passenger use, it is parked on a large dispersal being serviced by ground crew.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
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
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Two b/w photographs
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PPickF1708, PPickF1709
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
Title
A name given to the resource
Converted B-24
B-24
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35803/PPickF1712.2.jpg
f532e86bc502c83cf62d5b94c54fe958
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
Pick, Erick
Frederick Pick
F Pick
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
2017-06-26
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
Pick, F
Description
An account of the resource
21 items. The collection concerns Frederick Pick (1685075 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 57 and 227 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Gillian M Christian 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/.
Description
An account of the resource
Posed, a sergeant, leading aircraftman and corporal sitting on a ladder, on the inside of a building, leading to the next floor.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
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
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One b/w photograph
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PPickF1712
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
Title
A name given to the resource
Group of three sitting on a ladder
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35800/PPickF1713.2.jpg
f50b6ac30bb72c67ac981445179ad510
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
Pick, Erick
Frederick Pick
F Pick
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
2017-06-26
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
Pick, F
Description
An account of the resource
21 items. The collection concerns Frederick Pick (1685075 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 57 and 227 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Gillian M Christian 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/.
Description
An account of the resource
Informal, sitting on the grass, leaning against a wooden wall or fence, corporal stripes and police arm band.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
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
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One b/w photograph
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PPickF1713
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
Title
A name given to the resource
Military policeman
ground personnel
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35793/PPickF1714.2.jpg
f3df0079f45eaa9e973e42c6d59720e6
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35793/PPickF1715.2.jpg
1ccd85ee10cbb7768b6699407e841470
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
Pick, Erick
Frederick Pick
F Pick
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
2017-06-26
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
Pick, F
Description
An account of the resource
21 items. The collection concerns Frederick Pick (1685075 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 57 and 227 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Gillian M Christian 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/.
Description
An account of the resource
Informal, some in uniform some not, most with beer glasses, some sitting on settee some on the floor, pinups on the wall. One man has a bandaged hand. Two photographs, same group first with serious facial expressions, second with cheerful faces.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
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
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One b/w photograph
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PPickF1714, PPickF1715
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
Title
A name given to the resource
Group of seven
aircrew
ground personnel
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35785/PPickF1718.1.jpg
45c231c7c87e546b0e857cc1a7d1a9e2
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35785/PPickF1719.1.jpg
4f807ac710eeed5be2a26280e41187f8
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
Pick, Erick
Frederick Pick
F Pick
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
2017-06-26
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
Pick, F
Description
An account of the resource
21 items. The collection concerns Frederick Pick (1685075 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 57 and 227 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Gillian M Christian 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
Group from Reykjavik
Description
An account of the resource
Six individuals most of them with beer tankards, in a group in the open air, on the reverse, caption 'Photo taken between 2 - 3 am, Icelandic summer outside the Sgts Mess, RAF Reykavik, "Happy Days"'.
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
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
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One b/w photograph
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PPickF1719, PPickF1720
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
aircrew
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35782/PPickF1720.2.jpg
f7fa58035c4940026dfa04b4cc107df0
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35782/PPickF1721.2.jpg
baa5671a4878c07a2209e20ada1b7475
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1883/35782/PPickF1722.2.jpg
26fe48f90aeaa5771d0cc7ea293aac02
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
Pick, Erick
Frederick Pick
F Pick
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
2017-06-26
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
Pick, F
Description
An account of the resource
21 items. The collection concerns Frederick Pick (1685075 Royal Air Force) and contains his log book, documents and photographs. He flew operations as a wireless operator with 57 and 227 Squadrons.
The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Gillian M Christian 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/.
Description
An account of the resource
All groups consist of both aircrew and ground staff in a variety of working dress including sheepskin jerkins and duffel coat in front of of a Nissen hut with a sign Royal Air Force Embarkation Office.
First is of five individuals posed in two rows.
Second is of six again posed in two rows.
Third is of 10 individuals and a dog again in two rows.
Spatial Coverage
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Iceland--Reykjavík
Iceland
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Language
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eng
Type
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Photograph
Format
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Three b/w photographs
Identifier
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PPickF1720, PPickF1721, PPickF1722
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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.
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IBCC Digital Archive
Title
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Three groups from Reykjavik
Embarkation Office, Reykjavik
aircrew
animal
ground personnel
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1857/33281/SAdderM175073v10123.2.pdf
2a31a1b263f3d56d5d11e76e1606e323
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Title
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Adder, Mervyn
M Adder
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2017-05-29
Rights
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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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Adder, M
Description
An account of the resource
88 items. The collection concerns Pilot Officer Mervyn Adder (1922 - 1944, 175073 Royal Air Force) and contains his diaries, correspondence and photographs. He flew operations as a navigator with 44 Squadron and was killed 15 March 1944. <br /><br />The collection has been donated to the IBCC Digital Archive by Mary Sprakes and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.<br /><br /><span data-contrast="none" xml:lang="EN-GB" lang="EN-GB" class="TextRun SCXW207633627 BCX0"><span class="NormalTextRun SCXW207633627 BCX0">Additional information on<span> Mervyn Adder</span></span><span class="NormalTextRun SCXW207633627 BCX0"><span> </span>is available via the</span></span><span class="EOP SCXW207633627 BCX0" data-ccp-props="{"201341983":0,"335559739":200,"335559740":276}"> </span><a href="https://losses.internationalbcc.co.uk/loss/100101/">IBCC Losses Database.</a>
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
ROYAL AIR FORCE
[RAF Crest]
Writing Pad
Owing to the shortage of paper the Government urges the utmost economy in its use. This Stationery has been reduced in size and thickness to conform to the present National need.
PLEASE WRITE ON BOTH SIDES OF THE PAPER.
Navy, Army & Air Force Institutes.
[page break]
[RAF Crest]
1929 – 1931
some mail was also carried by air during herring season one of these planes was used for spotting herring shoals & to report them to the herring fleet.
An aircraft Fund was formed by Gov which provided that while a plane was so engaged any ship fishing had to contribute to this in proportion to its catch. Bad fishing season caused the withdrawal following complaints by the fishing people of this tax & the fund went out of business
1932-3. Dutch gov sponsored an expedition to Rek. 2 Fokkers carried out aerological observations for information about flying conditions in Iceland.
1938. Aeronautical Society organised for summer flying in a five seater – had regular route but also provided taxi service – fly to any point where business offered – profited so continued in winter – Its success & that of privately owned planes of great importance as aviation assures a dependable service that can reach isolated farms & towns patients can be taken to hospital & doctors can reach patients quickly.
[page break]
mainly passenger cargo boats – possessed to cargo vess[missing letters] Gov [indecipherable word] & coasting steamers used to call regularly at 60 points round the year – might make 17 & 10 trips round Iceland a year – again service may have to be suspended in mid winter owing to the weather sometimes in summer one of these coasters was withdrawn to help in the Brital Tourist Traffic – Gov.
[indecipherable word] also about 10 smaller vessels used for local transport in fjords & bays.
Several small steamship companies have been formed with freighting as their object – sail to Med countries CB. N. Europe & America (Reykjavik Co.) [Merchant fleet 1940 – 78 steam vessels 348 mates vessels]
Lack of good Harbours leads to inconvenience – felt in steamer traffic along coasts with more frequent attempts to serve isolated farms. Might lie of (sic) shore blowing blasts on the whistle for hours before passengers on board can be certain whether those farmers intend to take advantage of the rare opportunity.
[underlined] Air Communications. [/underlined]
1919 – 1920 experiment with small plane – not successful
1928 Aeronautical Society of Iceland hired a four seater plane from a foreign country which operated between Rek & places on the coast – used for transport – next season 2 planes four seater sea planes were hired
[page break]
[indecipherable word]
The strategic importance of Iceland as a base for planes to keep a watch on movements of shipping in the N Atlantic has been well demonstrated in this War.
Transatlantic flying: Iceland suitable stage for flights between Europe & America
Marshal Balbo's air fleet strengthened this idea as they took this route via Iceland & flew in one stretch from Rekj to Labrador
Earlier a British Arctic Air Route Expedition has used Iceland as a stage between this country & Greenland.
Lindbergh survey flight Europe – America 1933
[page break]
[RAF Crest}
they are accustomed to drink every hour but can go without water for 20 hrs. [symbol] feeding due to poor quality of pasture – over feeding will make them uncontrollable – very docile.
[underlined] Poultry [/underlined] chicken farming has increased greatly
Wild ducks & geese of have suffered due to indiscriminate taking of their eggs – eider duck has its home here.
Fox farming has been popular since 1930 owing to high prices fetched in its European market but this is not compatible with the eider duck farming
[underlined] Reindeer [/underlined] introduced threatened to outnumber sheep laws relaxed to kill these until 1934 when the Gov gave complete protection again so liable to increase again.
[underlined] Communications [/underlined]
[deleted] Communications [/deleted] Land. – Road transport – recent development – before pack horses over bridle paths. 1894 building roads between big towns – hence mainly coastal roads & across coastal plains
Norwegian Engineer – Main [deleted] object [/deleted] obstacle to road building & transport in Iceland is rivers – large of course & amount of water in rivers changing may wash every road - may flow beside
[page break]
bridge instead of under it – frost action on roads an example of poor state of road communication is that one of its greatest herring centres in the world on the NW. coast lacks road connection with the rest of Iceland. – not all the roads are fit enough to be classed as motoring roads (1936 total length of roads 4400 KM – 2800 fit for motor transport) – road passenger service between main towns in summer suspended largely in winter – heavy snowfall in mountain (2225 vehicles in Iceland in 1940) – these also carry baggage & mail – but freight goes by motor truck.
No railways in Iceland
[underlined] Sea Communications [/underlined]
First [deleted] [indecipherable word] the [/deleted] Icelanders realized unsatisfactory to rely almost entirely on foreigners for their communications with other countries – formed the Iceland Steamship Co. in 1914. Before this Denmark & Norway ran a service between their respective countries & Iceland. that is after 1854 when their ports were thrown open to ships of all nations – before this restricted to a few Danish Concessionaries (1602 – 1787) however none Scandinavian trade persisted during the closing periods.
1200 – 1400 most were Norwegians
1400 – 1600 English & Germans mainly replaced Norwegians
[symbol] Some of the boats used to come into Hull (Leith Hamburg Copenhagen & Antwerp) until the War & weekly service was maintained between GB & Iceland
[page break]
occupations
[underlined] Main Industries [/underlined] Fishing & Agriculture
agriculture – decline in no of people dependent upon this occupation – owing to movement to towns & emigration where the (younger people) fishing industry provides a better livelihood – state schools only in urban centres – believe travelling schools & boarding houses in country districts are the answer to this.
[symbol] high price offered for fish & fish products – exported in raw state but use of hydro electric power – plenty of this refineries may be set up near fishing grounds vitamins A & D – this may establish favourable [indecipherable word] of foreign trade for Iceland. – & justify this growth.
[underlined] Example [/underlined] Growth of Reykjavik.
Closeness to the best cod fishing banks & also to the most fertile agricultural region in Iceland. – first port of call on west coast for ships from abroad.
chief collecting & distributing centre of whole island – slightly smaller than Scarborough 31.4 % of pop.
1940 about 38,000 1900 about 6-7000
[underlined] agriculture [/underlined]
Farming Settlements
[symbol] [underlined] Seasonal migration also [/underlined] June – Sept
Herring fishing main cause fishing fleet off northern shores people move into ports & communal dwelling houses have been built to accomodate (sic) these in one or two cases the pop. in these ports is 3 times normal in July.
Cod fishing less seasonal hence has not such a great [indecipherable word]
[page break]
An example of the movement from the farms to more profitable occupations in the towns is that the problem of finding labour during the hay harvesting time which coincides with the herring season – young folk like town life much better.
You might think from this that the farmers have a thin time of it but no – because the value of the farm holding has increased considerably so the prices of farm produce in towns are high & farmers are subsidized in the sale of exported farm produce. – machinery can be obtained through cooperative societies – unlike in the time when trading monopolies were held by foreign merchants who charged highly for their goods despite the low purchasing power of the Icelanders
However despite all this agriculture has not been fully exploited – dairy farming could be more fully exploited in the broad lowlands of the SW – market in the growing urban centres – pastureland could be improved – but man power is needed – besides the above mentioned measures adapted by the Gov. cheap loans are made for this development
[symbols] Farms widely separated – near farms small patch of arable land & some improved pasture – rest poor grazing ground – farmers where holding near the sea supplement means by fishing – mode of life [symbol] resembles the Scottish crofting system
[symbol] [underlined] Positions of farms [/underlined] as they are restricted due to stretches of lava & sand, glaciers & ill drained
[page break]
lowlands, maintain
1. Broad coastal pastures of S.W.
2. Narrow stretches of flat & gently shelving shoreland.
3 Heads of fjords – extensive alluvial flats
4 Broad river valley above flood level
Only [deleted] examples [/deleted] ice action hummocks
Climate of Iceland not suitable for corn –
[underlined] Hay [/underlined] used for dairy cows & only for other cattle if there is an adequate supply. Horses & sheep if unable to graze in winter fed a different type of hay which grows in unlevelled meadows
[underlined] Vegetables [/underlined] – near some of the towns & coastal villages – where soil is sandy – bags of potatoes & turnips – but still 1/3 of requirements have to be imported
Rhubarb & black currants & grown in large quantities & cabbage & carrots in small quantities – but still shortage of fresh vegetables – the production of fruit & vegetables is liable to increase
Hot houses cultivation is increasing rapidly in neighbourhood of hot springs – which are used [indecipherable words] & know for hot water pipes to be buried to help cultivation of potatoes & help to keep of (sic) the effect of frost – In these greenhouses
[page break]
i.e. State Agricultural College – flowers tomatoes grapes & cucumbers are grown – it has also been known for bananas to be grown but by the addition of electrical heating.
[underlined] Sheep [/underlined] in the prop to people more sheep than any other country in the N. Hemisphere – hardy animal long flowing wool – (Norwegian origin) (attempts to improve stock resulted in mysterious disease – not further attempts made – 8 sheep breeding farms). Summer sheep graze unattended in the mountains – end of Sept rounded up driven in to corrals & sorted out to be taken home for the winter by their owners.
[underlined] Cattle [/underlined] – meat rather of poor quality but mainly kept for milk & butter etc 100 cattle breeding & inspection societies for grading purposes – content of milk – measure butter fat etc.
Butter making has been considerable – recently in increasing quantity
cheese has been made for export
canned milk was also exported
[underlined] Horses [/underlined] More numerous compared with no of inhabitants than any other European country – Horses until recently only means of overland communication – also reared for export until recently when it has fallen off. 50 horse breeding societies for improving breed & treatment of these animals – Very hardy animals – everybody rides in Iceland – can work over 24hrs without food
[page break]
[underlined] Iceland [/underlined]
[underlined] Introduction [/underlined] First point out never been there – reason for talk perhaps – one of us might go there
Heard a lot about the place – industry in home town – fishing connected with the place – thought it good idea to look up notes a subject for if anybody does happen to go. although cannot guarantee that will know any more about it after the talk than do now.
3rd Viking to visit country gave it its name – AD 865 – he wintered there very hard [deleted] winter [/deleted] spring – climbed mountain saw fjord to N. full of pack ice – he called it Iceland.
More appropriate Greenland 6/7 area of ice – Iceland. 1/8 area ice – more aptly Volcanoland – rocks directly or indirectly derived from hot rock liquid poured out from numerous volcanoes still active
Geologically unfinished country – added to by outpourings of lava. Glaciers there include the largest one in Europe therefore making it a land of frost & fire – presents phenomena – attracts scientists
[page break]
(Alfred Great [indecipherable]
Rough outline historical settlement began in 874 – a few after this viking chappy had wintered
[underlined] 874 – 1262 State organised [/underlined] however earliest disc[missing letters] appeared to be Irish Monks. – as shown in chronicles left by them – there before settlement but left as did not want to live with heathen left books. Irish behind – (in chronicle written in 825 says Monk had been there in spring & early summer - also says that was so light able to pick lice out of shirts at night as easily as in the daytime – hardly the thing to chronicle but
Dublin Core
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Title
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Notes in RAF writing pad
Description
An account of the resource
Notes on history of use of aircraft mentioning mail, locating shoals of herring, air surveys, air taxi services, air ambulance,. Mentions routes taken by cargo boats. Experiments with small planes in Iceland. Mentions strategic importance of Iceland, and monitoring shipping in Atlantic. Mentions Balbo ideas. Section on food and communications, industry, education and immigration in Iceland. Continues with agriculture, climate and other information about Iceland.
Format
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Twelve page handwritten document
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Identifier
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SAdderM175073v10123
Coverage
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Civilian
Spatial Coverage
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Iceland
Rights
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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.
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IBCC Digital Archive
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Babs Nichols
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1063/32267/B[Author]ParkerEv1.pdf
0e0d169b9f1fca9213bafb9d9117e82c
Dublin Core
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Title
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Parker, Eric
E Parker
Description
An account of the resource
Three items. An oral history interview with Warrant Officer Eric Parker (b. 1924, 1522919 Royal Air Force), a photograph and a biography. He flew operations as a navigator with 12 and 166 Squadron.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Eric Parker and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2016-05-05
Rights
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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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Parker, E
Transcribed document
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Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
[underlined]DECEMBER 2014[/underlined]
[underlined]"ERIC'S STORY"[/underlined]
Eric Parker was born on the 12th of January 1924, in the district of West Derby, Liverpool.
The youngest of three brothers he went St Mary's village school. He had an adventurous
childhood, since his father Thomas a farm labourer readily gave him access to the open
country life on the farm where he worked. The farm was situated in Knowsley and was
called Bathers Farm which is now a built up area.
As a boy Eric enjoyed many happy hours on the farm, especially during hay making and
harvesting time. This closeness with nature meant as he grew up he really enjoyed the
outdoors. He became a boy scout when he was twelve years of age and his love of the
outdoors meant many years of happy camping and scouting in general.
He left school at fourteen years of age and went into immediate employment as a lift
attendant working in the seven stories National Bank in Fenwick Street, Liverpool for the
magnificent sum of fourteen shillings per week (70 pence in today's money). This was a very
good wage at the time for a fourteen year old boy, the average then being about ten to
eleven shillings per week. However being a boy with higher ambitions he voluntarily left his
job as lift attendant and became aa apprentice electrician for a wage of seven shillings and
sixpence per week (an appreciable drop in earnings).
This job however didn't last too long, as his love of nature and the outdoors still lingered
and he soon left this employment to become a student gardener with Liverpool Parks and
Gardens. This meant each year he would be employed at a different park, nursery or farm
belonging to the corporation all this whilst studying to become a professional gardener. His
first year was at Newsham Park, Liverpool in the greenhouse and nursery site.
A year later he was at Harbreck Farm, Aintree. This farm produced vegetables for the
hospitals and homes in the corporation's bounds. By this time by attending various technical
college courses he obtained his junior Royal Horticultural Societies Certificate in Botany and
Practical Gardening.
[page break]
The year was now June 1941 and we were at war with Germany, at the age of seventeen
and a half years he joined the RAF as air crew and awaited call up which came in January
1942 on his eighteenth birthday.
After the usual enlistment procedures in London and Brighton, he found himself at the
Initial Training Wing in Paignton, Devon. Here with, many others he learned the mysteries of
things like navigation, meteorology, electronics etc. as well as physical exercise and drill.
Such a course was very exacting and all grew up from callous youths to seriously competent
young men, so that by 1943 he was part of a large body of airmen ready to be shipped to
Canada as possible pilots having successfully been graded by flying in Tiger Moths at RAF
Sywell in the midlands.
The troop ship Empress of Scotland safely took him and many others to Halifax, Nova Scotia
despite the great U Boat threat of the time. Soon he was on a troop train which took him to
Moose Jaw, Satchewan and from there to a nearby RCAF airfield named Caron. Here he
settled in to a twenty four week pilot's course, flying Fairchild Cornell Trainers. As a pilot he
had a very short career and was soon grounded as unsuitable (The Chief Flying Instructor
remarked "Parker as a pilot you would be more use to the enemy") and posted to a holding
unit at Brandon in Manitoba, awaiting a thirty two week course as a navigator/bomb aimer
(The longest aircrew course at that time).
Finally he was posted to number six Bombing and Gunnery School at Mountain View,
Ontario, learning all about bombs, bomb sights and machine guns and bomb aiming. Twelve
weeks later after flying on Ansons and Blenheim Aircraft he passed this part of the course
and was posted to the number nine air observer school at St Johns, Quebec, which was
quite close to the provincial capital Quebec City and also near to Montreal, where his uncle
John lived having emigrated to Canada after World War 1.
With his friend Bill Readhead, they were able to spend weekends at his apartment as he was
now a nationalised Canadian and held a Managerial post in the celebrated Mount Royal
Hotel. Consequently the pair was in regular attendance as his guests at the exclusive
Normandy Roof Club on a Saturday night (All on the house).
[page break]
By February 1944 Eric qualified as a Sergeant Navigator and received his flying brevet. He
sailed for home just before Easter 1944, again on the Empress of Scotland (With very little U
Boat threat this, time).
Back in UK (He holidayed in a commandeered hotel in Harrogate for a couple of weeks)
After a few short postings for familiarisation with UK wartime flying conditions and
restrictions he was posted to RAF Husbands Bosworth, Northampton on operational training
unit, flying on Wellington Bombers for a twelve week course. Here he along with a mass of
various aircrew trades, signallers, gunners, pilots etc. were all assembled en'masse in a big
Hangar and told by the Wing Commander Flying to crew themselves up. He left the hangar
saying he would be back later.
As they all mingled together Eric was approached by a tall gangly New Zealand pilot who
introduced himself as Alec Wickes who asked him if he would consider joining his crew as
navigator, Eric agreed and soon together they assembled a crew, namely Alec Wickes Flight
Sergeant Pilot, Eric Parker as Sergeant Navigator, Trevor Connolly (NZ) Sergeant Wireless
Operator, Bob Whyte (NZ) Sergeant Bomb Aimer, Arthur Saunders Sergeant Mid Upper
Gunner, Doug Horton Sergeant Rear Gunner and finally Bill McCabe Sergeant Engineer.
Later that morning the Wing Commander returned and those who were still uncrewed (Very
Few) were told by him without any argument, this was his final decision and he crewed
them up. His last act of that morning was to line them all up in two ranks and say "Look at
that man next to you" (This they all did) "Gentlemen you have thirty operations ahead of you
and I tell you now, one of you will not be coming back from your tour, good luck to you all
and if anyone here wishes to opt out take a step forward now." No one stepped forward.
So they finished their crew flying and they all went on to the heavy conversation unit at
Blyton near Gainsborough to start flying on the famous Lancaster on a course that was to
last for six weeks.
Eric enjoyed his time at Blyton and he with his new crew soon bonded together becoming
almost like brothers, doing everything together on and off duty. They were billeted in a
Nissan hut along with another crew and they learned to become a reliable crew who
depended totally on each other for their survival.
[page break]
Finally they finished their course on Lancaster's and in December 1944 just before Christmas
they were posted to One Group B Flight Twelve Squadron Bomber Command at RAF
Wickenby as a brand new crew.
Wickenby is situated twelve miles south east of Lincoln and Lincoln Cathedral was a
wonderful land mark for any returning aircraft. Twelve Squadron itself was a very old World
War One squadron whose motto is "Foxes lead the field." This and a Foxes head are
emblazoned on its crest; it is still in service today.
Life on the squadron was fairly easy going apart from when you were on "Ops" and Eric and
crew soon fell into the swing of things. A normal day would normally entail going across to
the "flights" (A group of Nissan huts on the other side of the airfield). This was quite a long
walk, like everyone else Eric signed out a bicycle for himself and most of the crew followed
suit later. At "flights" they had a crew room, where crew sat, drank tea and gossiped.
By this time "Wickes's" crew had been allocated a brand new Lancaster with Squadron
Markings PH-Y painted on its fuselage and soon they took it on its first air test. The air test
proved perfect and they were all delighted at having a brand new machine for their tour. At
this time during lunch in the Sergeants Mess everyone gathered around the notice board to
read the battle order for that particular night. Wickes's crew were on it and they read out
the petrol load required for the operation; it was full tanks (21 .54 gallons). They knew it
was to be a very long trip, but where to? That would come later at briefing.
Eric's first operation was in fact Chemnitz in Far Eastern Germany a few miles from Dresden
which had been fire bombed the day before. A thousand bombers took part, it was very
long and exhausting, but the crew came back elated at their success in getting back home
safely.
This posting to Wickenby now presented Eric with a big problem; he was due to get married
on the 6th of January 1945 to his dearly beloved fiance Aimee having become engaged to her
prior to leaving for Canada a year earlier.
[page break]
Eric had first met his wife to be at a dance in St Andrews Church Hall, Clubmoor, Liverpool,
one Saturday night. He always remembers this time fondly. He had arrived there with his
friend Lenny Hughes and was waiting along with many other young men for a ladies choice
dance to begin. He didn't hold much hope of being chosen, but a lovely young sixteen year
old girl came confidently across the floor and asked him if he would like to dance. For Eric it
was love at first sight and they became engaged six months later.
Luckily the CO realised Eric's Marriage problem and granted Eric and all the crew a five day
emergency leave and so all the crew attended his wedding.
The wedding took place at St Andrews Church, Clubmoor, Liverpool on the 6th of January
1945. After the wedding ceremony Aimee and Eric went to Blackpool for a three day
honeymoon.
The crew remained on leave in Liverpool until Eric and Aimee returned from Blackpool, they
as a crew left Liverpool from Lime Street station on the fifth day of their leave back to their
Squadron at Wickenby.
[page break]
Life went on as usual and soon the crew had a dozen operations under their belts and went
on to seven days leave in the month of February. Eric went home to Liverpool and the other
members of the crew went elsewhere.
On return it was with utter dismay, they found that their aircraft PH-V had been shot down
and the crew listed as missing in action. This was a new crew who had borrowed PH-V for
their first and only operation. The crew were really dismayed at losing PH-V, but were then
given PH-N, this was the oldest kite on the twelve Squadron, but it was a "lucky machine"
that had ninety seven operations to its credit, so they didn't mind too much.
So life continued much as before, a series of events, such as air test, practical bombing,
take-off and landing sessions, air gunnery with Spitfires as enemy and of course night
bombing operations over Germany.
[page break]
During nights off the station emptied out into Lincoln or more usually to the local pub.
These were very lively evenings were everyone got a little drunk and sang their heads off.
The station also put on dances with WAFF'S and invited ladies from local villages in
attendance. While to camp cinema showed numerous films of the time.
Eric noticed as their tour progressed that like many other crews they started to get a little
"twitchy" as they completed more and more operations. To date Wickes's crew had been
lucky for they had survived three night fighter attacks by using a favourite tactic called "cork
screwing" The fighter attacks always came from above the port or starboard wing of the
bomber. For example if it was the starboard side under attack the air gunner concerned
would shout "Fighter Fighter starboard beam, prepare to corkscrew, starboard now" On this
command the pilot would partially throttle back the four engines and but the aircraft into a
steep diving turn to starboard, this meant that by turning into the attacking aircraft it would
have to steepen its turn also to keep on the target. By the time the Lancaster had lost about
one thousand feet the pilot would pull it up and go in a steep turn to port and climb up a
thousand feet, thus completing the first cycle of a corkscrew. Which would be repeated until
the fighter broke off his attack. By the time he got his aircraft back on track the Lancaster
had managed to escape out of sight, unlike today the attack planes had no way of re
locating their foe. The aircraft suffered little damage from these attacks except during an
attack by an ME 109 the tail fin being partially shot away.
Navigational tactics during an operation could also endanger the aircraft and many aircraft
collided and blew up when navigators took an action which was called "Dog Legging". This
happens when the navigator realised he would be too early over the target and would have
to take time losing action which couldn't be actioned simply be reducing airspeed (Usually
navigators had plus or minus three minutes tolerance over the target). Dog legging meant
altering course off the briefed track by sixty degrees for three minutes to starboard or port,
this meant that the bomber would be cutting directly across the main bomber stream all
virtually unseen at night. Usually the dog leg aimed to lose three minutes of time, so after
three minutes the navigator turned the opposite way through one hundred and twenty
degrees for a further three minutes, and then the navigator turned the bomber back on
track to the target. This would effectively put him back on time by three minutes. He would
repeat this action again if he still found it necessary to lose more time. It was an extremely
dangerous tactic to undertake as there was a huge risk of collision.
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They also successfully survived flying through anti- aircraft flack box barrages, apart from
loud explosions from nearby exploding shells and the clatter of shrapnel on the fuselage;
they suffered little damage from the running of the gauntlet.
Soon Wickes's crew became the senior crew on the Squadron with twenty three operations
to their credit and so with a final operation to Heligoland the war came to a close, although
an armistice had yet to be agreed upon.
By this time PH-N had completed one hundred operations and was awarded by the
Squadron members with a DFC and they all celebrated that night in the mess.
Things were in a bad state in Europe. The Dutch particularly were all starving, so the
Germans agreed on "a safe passage" for a massive air drop on Holland. This was carried out
by our bomber command and the USA Eighth Air Force which flew B17 Fortress bombers.
This huge Operation was given the code name "MANNA" by the British and "CHOWHOUND"
by the Americans and so Eric continued on Ops, but this time instead of bombs Wickes's
crew dropped food, and didn't they come down low, zooming across the flat, flooded
landscape of Holland at zero feet, with hundreds of Dutch civilians waving to them as they
passed over their villages.
Eric's crew did four food drop operations, so he completed the Air War with twenty seven
operations, three short of his tour of thirty. It had been a successful war for Wickes's crew
but the icing on the cake was yet to come, when a few weeks later whilst on end of war
leave Eric discovered he had been awarded the DFM (Distinguished Flying Medal) while Alec
Wickes (Now and officer) had been awarded the DFC (Distinguished Flying Cross) and so
they all disbanded and took de mob leave.
Eric for his part was very unsettled for in January 1945 he had become a married man and
now had a wife to consider. He now realised that he enjoyed service life and loved flying and
after a long talk with Aimee they decided to continue RAF life together/ come what may. He
signed on for a further eight years. later he extended this to twelve years. Finally as time
passed by for the full twenty two years which entitled him to a full retirement pension at
the age of forty? This also meant that he could live out with Aimee and she would receive a
[page break]
living out allowance along with her marriage allowance. As a married couple they were
financially comfortable compared to many young couples settled in Civvy Street at the time.
Eric had left Wickenby and the crew had dispersed while he in turn was at a holding unit on
'an old airfield called Snaith in Yorkshire. Aimee then was living with her sister Lillian while
continuing with her post wartime job as a machinist at Lybro Clothiers; they only met at
weekends and on leave. This was rather an unsatisfactory arrangement for them both but
they accepted it and the short term separation until he got his life on a more permanent
station.
Unfortunately this was not to be as he was posted in May 1946 to RAF Dishforth in Yorkshire
on a heavy conversion unit on York Transport Aircraft. This would ultimately mean that
shortly he would be posted on to a Transport Command Squadron and would be spending
lots of his time out of the country on route flying to the middle and far-east, at least once a
month. Aimee was not happy about this, but accepted the enforced separation
philosophically.
There was one good piece of news that came out of this new posting. Seemingly his old war
time skipper Alec Wickes had not left the service and returned to New Zealand, but had
signed on with the RAF. He to had been posted to Dishforth and had asked for his old
navigator to join him there on the next available course. This request was granted so they
met up once again and flew together for nearly three more years.
It is worth mentioning at this point that aircrew on obtaining their wings were promoted to
the rank of Sergeant. Some were commissioned as officers. After one year Sergeants were
promoted to Flight Sergeant and a year after that they became Warrant Officers. By Easter
1946 Eric had become a Warrant Officer. These ranks were not permanent however and
only acting by definition as he explains later in this account.
Soon, Eric with his old pilot Alec Wickes (Now a Flight lieutenant) completed their course on
the York Transport, this plane is a development of a Lancaster Bomber, but with a large
under slung roomy fuselage designed to carry both cargo and passengers or both.
[page break]
and an air quartermaster and so joined 246 Squadron, Transport Command.
They had only been on the Squadron two days when Alec approached Eric and said "get
your maps and charts together we are going on a ten day round trip to India tomorrow".
This entailed a five days each way flight which was achieved by slipping crews in Egypt (This
means one crew rested in Egypt and the other went on and Eric's crew followed with
another plane the next day). The route was UK to Castel Benito, Tripoli, from there to
Heliopolis in Cairo, then to Shaibah, Iraq, to Karachi, India and then on to Palam near Dell. It
was all daytime flying, they night stopped at Tripoli and slipped crews at Heliopolls for one
day. They night stopped at Karachi and after Palam they returned to UK on a reverse flight
order. These were gruelling flights and they all came back greatly fatigued (Today known as
jet lag).
Such flights had their compensations and such was the case here in the form of smuggling.
This was quite easy in those early days of peace. The British public had been deprived of
luxury goods for many years and now had money to spend. There were no customs officers
on any of the airfields and strangely, at many places along the routes luxury items like
watches, jewellery, nylons, perfumes and ladies shoes were readily available and cheap.
One of the most popular items smuggled in by the crews was large Chinese embossed Indian
carpets from KarachL They cost about thirty pounds in Karachi and sold for around one
[page break]
hundred and fifty pounds in the UK. Smuggling became so well known in Cambridge (a later
transport station) that at nights in the Criterion Hotel Bar transport crews would be
approached by young ladies with a torn out copy of an advert from some American
Magazines, this would be pocketed by the would be smuggler along with an outline of the
ladies foot and this pattern would be faithfully copied by a back street shoemaker in Karachi
for five pounds and later sold in UK to the lady for fifteen pounds. This also applied to all the
other short supply goods mentioned. This smuggling continued a" the time Eric was on
Transport Command to late 1948. Finally ended when a Customs Airfield was established at
RAF Lyneham and all future route Yorks had to call there for customs clearance. From then on
all the crew's duty free allowance was restricted to a bottle of whisky and two hundred
cigarettes, a" other imports were taxed and so ended smuggling - more or less.
Eric and Alec were only at Holmsley South for about four months then they were posted to
242 Squadron at Oakington, ten miles from Cambridge. At Oakington they had a new role
flying Yorks with both passengers and freight and their route had now been extended to
include Singapore and RAF Changi. Flying basically the same route as before, but now
including either Dum Dum near Calcutta or Negombo in Ceylon. The choice of which route
depended on the position and activity of the monsoon rains at the time.
Most ofthe time on the UCS route so called, was uneventful, except for one incident
halfway across the Indian Ocean on enroute from Changi to Negombo. Eric - as navigators
do, was taking a merpass of the sun with his sextant, when his astrodome blew off and away
went the dome and the sextant. He was rather shaken as were the rest of the cabin crew,
but soon they all settled down to a rather noisy and windy flight. luckily there was no rain
and at Negombo the ground crew sealed the opening temporarily and so they were able to
continue for home next day.
Eric and Alec carried on flying Yorks on 242 Squadron until the end of 1947. The Alec was
posted to the Empire Air Training School at Shawbury and Eric to 148 Squadron at Upwood
near Peterborough and back on Lancaster’s at Bomber Command again.
It was whilst on this Squadron that he received the news on 14th January 1948 that his wife
Aimee had given birth to a baby girl, later to be christened as Sandra. (So named after the
homing searchlight beacons present on Bomber Command during the war).
[page break]
This period in their married lives meant that for once they could be together even though
accommodation was hard to come by. However they struck lucky and Eric was able to hire
an eighteen foot caravan situated about half a mile from the RAF Station gates.
[page break]
They were very happy there, but by February 1948 Eric was on the move once more, being
posted to RAF Wyton, (is Squadron Bomber Command) twelve miles away from Upwood
towards Huntingdon. Eric would commute by bicycle.
luckily they had just started building new married quarters at Wyton and after a few
months they moved from the caravan into brand new married quarters on the camp at
Wyton itself.
These were very settled times for them both and baby Sandra. Eric was now flying Lincoln’s.
This was really a stretched version of the Lancaster, but updated in several ways, yet still
obsolete, now that Canberra's and V bombers would soon be coming into service.
Never the less life was now settled and enjoyable for Eric and Aimee, but for how long?
Unfortunately it was not for long at all, by April 1950 he was posted to RAF Marham, near
Kings lynn, Norfolk and so they had to vacate their quarters and move on once again.
luckily this station was also embarked on a big building scheme, but quarters would not
become available for about eighteen months. luck was again on their side and they
managed to rent a self-contained flat over a general store in Downham Market. So they all
settled down yet again. Aimee and Sandra were very happy there and became lifelong
friends with the owners of the flat. However this meant that Eric had to cycle back and
forward to work each day which was rather a bind (Twelve miles each way). Once the
building started he was able to hitch a lift with the Lorries delivering materials for the
building of the new runways.
[page break]
Marham turned out to be a very special posting; he became part of a team chosen to form a
new conversion unit because the RAF had decided to re-equip their Bomber Squadrons with
B 29 Bombers from the USAF (United States Air Force). The B29 had proved itself in the
Japanese theatre of war and was seen as a perfect stop gap plane until the Squadrons of the
RAF were re-equipped with jets.
Initially these new crews were all converted on to the B29 by American crews and Eric
because he was already familiar with the "Norden" bomb site became a Bombing Instructor
when the first of the new RAF B29 Squadrons came into conversion. The B29 was known in
the RAF as the Washington and he remembers up to eight Squadrons of RAF air crew that he
was involved in training. The conversion unit then finally became a full Squadron in its own
right and was given the title 35 Squadron. He now served on the new Squadron as a
Navigator/Bomber Aimer.
A year later Eric was able to move into a new married quarter on the base, this was a three
bedroom semi-detached house with all mod cons of the day.
[page break]
During his time at Marham Her Majesty the Queen visited the base and the next door
married quarter was inspected by her. All the children were lined up to meet her.
He remained at Marham until June 1956. Sandra grew up and then at five years old
attended a small “hutted" infant school set up by the camp authorities for Eric's part, life
settled down to the usual humdrum Squadron life, except now he was a full Flight Sergeant
but life was similar to before. Cross country exercises, bombing and gunnery etc. life had
become quite boring.
Things changed in 1955 when other bomber squadrons in the RAF were now being re
equipped with jet bombers and the B 29 crews had the very pleasant task of ferrying a well-
used B29 back to the USA.
Eric was lucky and made three transatlantic crossings, firstly via Iceland to near New York
and then down to Dover in Delaware. They night stopped at Dover and next day flew via
Montgomery in Alabama and then on to their destination at Davies Monthan Air Force Base
near Tucson, Arizona, a very successful flight to a huge desert airfield full of thousands of
moth balled military aircraft stretching out into the desert as far as the eye could see. It
really brought home to him the enormity of the American Air Force and how it now had an
Air Force fully equipped with jet planes.
[page break]
The crews returned to Marham courtesy of American civil and military transport planes as
passengers.
Later at Marham 35 Squadron converted on to the jet Canberra Bomber.
It took Eric quite a while to adjust to the new speeds and altitudes of the Canberra, then
gradually as before he settled down to normal Squadron life.
He remained at Marham until June 1956, until the whole Squadron was relocated to RAF
Upwood and so he completed a full circle in Bomber Command. Shortly after arriving Aimee
and Sandra moved into a new quarter on the base and Sandra went on to the village school
in Ramsey village.
Eric was only at Upwood a week when the Suez Canal crises occurred, this was when the
canal was nationalised by Colonel Nassar and closed to shipping. British and French
Governments strongly objected to this action and several Squadrons of Canberra's were
posted out to Akrotiri in Cyprus, 35 Squadron being one of them. As history shows this
campaign to open up and free the blockaded Suez Canal which was aided and abetted by
France and Israel became an utter farce and even after successful landing of troops in the
zone and one bombing raid by RAF Canberra's on Cairo Radio Station the whole force had to
withdraw, like whipped dogs since the United Nations with USA in the lead, insisted that this
[page break]
action was against International Law and that sanctions would be taken against us all if we
disobeyed the UN's orders.
Once again Eric was back at RAF Upwood to whatever lay ahead, he didn't have to wait too
long, by early July 1957 he was posted to Kuala Lumper in Malaya to the Department of
Psychological Warfare (Whatever that was).
So by late July 1957 Eric found himself on the troop ship 55 Oxfordshire along with Aimee
and 5andra, as he had organised an accompanied passage for them.
[page break]
The ship had to go via Durban, South Africa, because the Suez Canal was still closed to
shipping. When they reached Durban they were on the first troop ship to call there since the
end of World War 2. In those days the "troop ships" were always met by the "Lady in White"
who sang patriotic songs over a very loud PA system and the citizens welcomed all the
troops as they passed through. Now as patriotic as ever, she came out of retirement to
welcome them all both in and out of the harbour during their twelve hour stay. As the
Oxfordshire left Durban at dusk she was on the quay and sang them away with land of hope
and glory. It was a very emotional experience for all on board.
A couple of weeks later they arrived early morning at Singapore and they all spent the day
sight-seeing in Singapore City, before boarding a sleeper train bound for Kuala Lumpar {KL}.
The night trip was uneventful in spite of terrorist activity in certain areas of the route. All
servicemen including Eric were issued with rifles and revolvers.
[page break]
They arrived at KL early morning and took up residence for a few days in the Paramount
Hotel in Batu Road.
It took Eric and family a few days to get settled in but soon they were safely billeted in an
RAF civilian hiring at an area called Brickfields.
Meanwhile Eric acquired an old Standard 9 saloon car for a small sum and soon was using it
to get himself and family to and fro from hiring to airfield and elsewhere. In fact life became
very pleasant indeed, Sandra was soon enrolled in the local British Army School and was
bussed into lessons every weekday. These lessons finished at lpm every day, Aimee and
Sandra taxied to the airfield nearly every day where they met up with Eric at the Naffe Club
and swimming pool, since he had usually finished the days flying duties by then. The family
[page break]
later moved into a small bungalow at Petaling Jaya and new housing estate on the outskirts
of KL.
Eric discovered that he was now a navigator attached to a flight of three old Dakota
Transport Planes of World War Two vintage, but still fully operational. They were known as
"The Voice Flight" each was named as "Faith" "Hope" and "Charity" and had been especially
adapted to carry out loud hailing operations for the Department of Psychological Warfare.
Each Dakota carried four ground tannoy loud speakers securely attached to the underside of
the fuselage on a metal girder pointing out to port (Left) (Can be seen in photo just above
wheels). Power to these was in the form of a huge emergency AC Ground Generator and
was firmly bolted in the centre of the empty fuselage along with four by fifty vault valve
operated amplifiers which stood at each corner of the generator. Messages in various local
languages such as Chinese, Malayan and Indian were recorded on an endless tape and so
messages were sent out to various terrorist groups in their jungle hideouts asking them to
surrender. These terrorist groups were determined to break away from the British Empire
and form a free Malaya, but not as a democratic government, but as a Communist one
which the British Government was not prepared to sanction.
Eric soon found out that this was quite a dangerous job since all the flights were done at a
very low level and followed a square search pattern at a very low airspeed which meant
flying near the aircrafts stalling speed. Most flights were [performed early morning and
lasted three to four hours every day seven days a week, but not in bad weather conditions.
Paint Your Wagon (Not the film later released starring Clint Eastwood and lee Marvin) was a
very popular musical on Broadway and soon the voice flight had adapted one of its songs as
a signature tune, namely "l Talk To The Trees" (Clint Eastwood later sang this in the film). It
was a very exacting job, but seemed to get results. As the terrorist war progressed so the
terrorist groups gave ground more and more towards the Siamese Border. Soon the voice
flight was on the move and found themselves at Bayen Nepas a small airfield on Penang
Island.
Aimee and Sandra soon followed a few days later when Eric had obtained a small Bungalow
hiring at a small hamlet on the Island named Buket Glugar. This was also HQ for an RAF Boat
Squadron for the region and several high speed launches were birthed there for sea patrols
in that region. The voice flights were made very welcome by them and gave them access to
their mess and outside film show which the family enjoyed. Eric was also a member of the
Army Sergeants Mess at Minden Barracks which allowed them to use the facilities including
swimming pool, this was near to their home in Green lane.
[page break]
During the move to Penang, there was a tragedy the Dakota's were being used to carry
freight to their new base in Penang and since the airfield had no night facilities one of the
planes fully laden was in a hurry to take off to get there before nightfall and in his haste the
pilot Flight lieutenant Kevin Kelleher failed to carry out his ground checks and took off with
his elevator locks still inserted in the elevators in the fully up position. On take-off he went
straight up in the air and stalled and crashed on the end of the runway. Fortunately no one
[page break]
was injured but the plane was a write off. (I recently learned in December 2014 that Kevin
had died). Now we only had "Hope" and "Charity" left.
In August 1959 Eric was promoted to Warrant Officer yet again, but this time he was of
substantive rank and now known as a Master Navigator. He remained in this rank until he
retired.
By the end of December 1959 the terrorist war came to a victorious end to the British and
Commonwealth Forces. The terrorists surrendered in droves. The Chinese leader Chin Peng
disappeared over the Thai Border and presumably ended up back in Communist China (He
lived to a good age and died last year 2013). It was also the end ofthe British Governing in
Malaya as the country became an Independent state. At the beginning of January 1960 the
Malayans celebrated MERDEKA (Freedom) and became known as Malaysia. On 1st January
1960 Eric and family arrived by air into London's Heathrow. After a visit to Air Ministry Eric
was posted (After a month's leave) to Dishforth.
It should be mentioned at this point that prior to leaving Malaya Eric had ordered a new
Hillman Minx Car from a dealer in George Town, Penang. In those distant days it was almost
impossible to buy a new car in the UK as they all went for export and any UK models carried
a huge purchase tax burden. However since he was then deemed as overseas he was able to
purchase a new model free of taxes which was duly deducted from the export line in the UK
and was awaiting his collection for when he had finally arrived home. This collection was
duly made by him whilst on leave and so he became the owner of a brand new Hillman Minx
At Dishforth instead of York Aircraft he found himself on a twelve week conversion course
on the mighty Bristol Beverley a workhorse transport aircraft as navigator.
[page break]
In early 1960 Eric finished the conversion and was posted to 47 Squadron at Abingdon in
Oxfordshire. A lovely area to be posted to. With his seniority he soon moved into married
quarter whilst his daughter Sandra who had passed the eleven plus examine in Malaya,
moved into the local Grammar School, so the Parkers were settled once more except for the
number of detachments he would have to suffer, now that he was back in Transport
Command.
Whilst stationed on the new base apart from the usual crew training so named as
continuation training, they were also involved in para trooping and heavy drop training, but
most of the time the crews were out of the country ferrying passengers and freight to all
parts of the Med, Middle East and all over Africa north of the equator. For example the
Squadron flew out to Eastleigh/Nairobi, Kenya for a month in November 1962 and made
numerous food drops to the famine suffering areas of Kenya in the northern frontier district
on the Ethiopian border, either air dropping or landing with heavy supplies, on very short air
strips carved out of the bush. Short field landings and take offs were a speciality for the
Beverley with its four reverse thrust engines and very low landing speeds and robust under
carriage. The Squadron spent Christmas in Nairobi and returned to UK in January 1963.
Satisfied that they had done a good humanitarian job in Africa.
During his time with 47 Squadron he made several interesting trips, one in particular was to
a place called Manfe in the British Cameroons; this meant crossing the Sahara Desert with a
load of heavy freight for a new airfield being constructed there right in the middle of a
dense jungle region. On his first flight, his navigation took him to a couple of miles of the
new airstrip, but unfortunately for him all homing devices on the airfield had broken down,
making it impossible to find the airfield among the dense canopy of trees. They flew around
for about half an hours searching vainly for visual contact, but to no avail. But hope came
from an unsuspected source, as one of the passengers, a civilian air engineer, returning to
Manfe from UK leave came forward and recognising a nearby river bend was able to direct
them to the much concealed airstrip. Relief was expressed all round as fuel was getting
critical by this time and they would have had to consider diverting to Kano a big airfield in
Nigeria.
The second trip was no problem as all the radio waves were fully serviceable, on returning
to UK Eric had to report sick as he found out he had contracted amoebic dysentery and
spent three weeks in isolation hospital at RAF Ery, Norfolk. He finally got clearance for the
disease and was soon back on flying with the Squadron, with a medical restriction which
[page break]
supposedly was to restrict his flying to Europe only but the squadron ignored this and soon
he was back en route to Khormaksa, Aiden. This airfield served the port of Aiden and the
Yemen.
This was at the time when Britain was withdrawing from the smaller outposts in the middle
and Far East. With many others on the squadron he helped in this withdrawal. Evacuating
troops and valuable freight back to the UK.
Eric remained with 47 Squadron until August 1964, when he applied for a one year home
posting which airmen ending long service were entitled to receive under RAF regulations.
The parker family packed their bags and bought a brand new semi-detached house at
Formby. This house had a large back garden. The house had been purchased
and equipped during an earlier leave period. His new posting was to an RAF telephone
exchange at Haydock - between Liverpool and Manchester alongside the Haydock
Racecourse. This exchange also supported a Radar tracking unit in its grounds. In his last
year Eric became a RT controller on the unit. (A very cushy posting). Although the hours
could be very irregular depending on when the new V bomber force wanted to practice
their radar bombing. As he now still had the Hillman Minx, the journey from Formby was
not onerous.
[page break]
At this time the role of the Plotting Unit should be explained. Its purpose was to allow the V
Bomber Force to practice it's blind bombing techniques. Each unit (There were several
dotted over the UK) had two radar dishes in cabins, it was the task of the operators to track
the V Bombers as they made their bombing run in for the target, which in this case was the
dead centre of the plotting table. So that as they came into range information from the
dishes was passed to this part of the unit.
This triggered off the ink filled tracker arm fixed on the plotting table and this track
continued towards the table centre until the bomber pilot called bomb had gone then the
plotting arm stopped drawing. The by a series of mathematical tables a controller was able
to calculate where the bomb would have struck in relation to the target on the plotting
table centre and the results were then passed to the bomber by VHF radio. The V Bomber
Force honed its blind bombing skills in this way and became more proficient.
The bombers would fly from their various bases situated in other parts ofthe UK and
ostensively bomb Haydock and other such units situated elsewhere in the course of the
exercise.
[page break]
Eric quite enjoyed his short time at Haydock and recalls one very special evening which has
stayed with him until this day. About 1030pm all RT discipline on the unit was broken when
a V Bomber pilot called him up and said "Have you heard the news? President Kennedy has
been assassinated." Soon the airwaves were awash with uncontrolled chatter. It seemed so
strange as strict radio discipline had always been the rule.
Soon Eric's time at Haydock and indeed the RAF ended. He departed in late August 1964, on
his last but one day to the de mob centre just outside Blackpool and took a bed there for the
night. Next morning he went through all the de mob procedures and finally was kitted out at
the clothing store with a full set of civilian gear. This gear was exactly the same as that given
to conscripts at the end of the World War 2 -1945-1948 and comprised: Hat, shirt, tie,
three piece suit, socks and shoes, and belted raincoat. Eric found them handy for working in,
in the garden and other odd jobs. He also received his final wages which surprisingly
contained a £12 bonus for winning his DFM. Seemingly officers received £25 for their DFC's,
but were expected to forgo this amount and donate it to the RAF Benevolent Fund (Or so he
was told).
Eric became a civilian once more and he felt quite disconsolate as he made his way home to
his new house in Formby and new life with his wife and daughter. He had made plans for his
future, during his last few years at RAF Abingdon and he now intended that his new work
life would be that of a schoolmaster and so during that period he attended many
educational courses provided by the RAF to obtain the necessary GCE's to gain entry to a
training college.
During this time he obtained good passes of GCE's in Maths, English Language, English
literature, Navigation, Chemistry, Geography and General Paper. These were quite
sufficient at that time for entry into college. He was finally accepted by Edge Hill Teachers
Training College, near Ormskirk, Lancashire, which is situated about twelve miles inland
from the coast of Formby, which is now a part of Merseyside (Since 1974) and so he
travelled to and fro each day in the comfort of his Hillman Minx (Quite a change from his
cycling days in the RAF).
Edge Hill was a very stately college in lovely grounds and as a former lowly lad from West
Derby, he felt very privileged to be a mature student there. This mature status meant that
he only had to complete a two year course and so he joined up with a junior course of
students that had just completed their first year's study. He joined this course at the
beginning of the Easter Term 1965 along with about six other mature students, both men
and women were on the course.
[page break]
For his main subjects he elected to specialise in Geography and Rural Science as he still
maintained his love of the outdoors and the wider world. Rural Science comprised many
topics such as general gardening, soil science, botany, chemistry and he found it very
interesting especially as his new house in Formby embraced an extra-large garden. (As
earlier photographs have shown).
The Geography course was equally comprehensive and he found it quite fulfilling as it
embraced so many subjects that he had used every day as his role as RAF Navigator. Such
topics as map projections, meteorology, geology, astronomy, time and tides, all were
relevant to him and so he found the course quite absorbing and easy.
During the two years at Edge Hill Eric had to complete a full school term teaching practice
for each of the years, for the first year he was lucky and completed his practice at Holy
Trinity Junior School in Formby which was very convenient for him.
For the second year term of practice he taught at Ormskirk Secondary School. He enjoyed
both these postings and learned a lot about handling children and general classroom
procedures.
Finally he qualified and left college and took up a position at St luke's C of E School in
Formby.
For his main subjects he elected to specialise in Geography and Rural Science as he still
maintained his love of the outdoors and the wider world. Rural Science comprised many
topics such as general gardening, soil science, botany, chemistry and he found it very
interesting especially as his new house in Formby embraced an extra-large garden. (As
earlier photographs have shown).
The Geography course was equally comprehensive and he found it quite fulfilling as it
embraced so many subjects that he had used every day as his role as RAF Navigator. Such
topics as map projections, meteorology, geology, astronomy, time and tides, all were
relevant to him and so he found the course quite absorbing and easy.
During the two years at Edge Hill Eric had to complete a full school term teaching practice
for each of the years, for the first year he was lucky and completed his practice at Holy
Trinity Junior School in Formby which was very convenient for him.
For the second year term of practice he taught at Ormskirk Secondary School. He enjoyed
both these postings and learned a lot about handling children and general classroom
procedures.
Finally he qualified and left college and took up a position at St luke's C of E School in
Formby.
[page break]
This was a typical small village school still maintaining its links with the church even though
this was now the responsibility of the local council.
The headmistress at this time was an old fashioned spinster named Miss Cubbons and she
ruled the school with a fair but firm hand. Eric remembers his opening week with her when
one day she said to him "Remember this Mr Parker, you don't want children to like you, you
want them to resoect you and liking you will follow." Eric took this on board and it served
him in good stead during his twenty two years of teaching.
During his first two years at St Lukes Eric was in charge of second year Juniors and settled in
well until Miss Cubbons retired and a new headmaster was appointed, a Mr Brian Waiter
Mills who was formerly Deputy Head at St Peters, Formby.
Eric and Brian became firm friends almost overnight and when the school reconvened at
the end of the summer holidays he move Eric up to fourth year junior class teacher. Eric was
delighted with his new post and soon spread his wings, since the new head although quite
traditional, was not afraid to accept new challenges. This suited Eric and he spread his wings
into all sorts of educational topics of curricular and non-curricular. By and large the boys and
girls of the fourth year responded well to his efforts and he gained the respect not only of
the children but their parents as well.
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
Eric Parker's Biography
Description
An account of the resource
Titled Eric's Story it details Eric's life from birth in Liverpool. He joined the RAF on his 18th birthday in January 1942. Initial training was at Paignton then he was shipped to Canada. He failed to progress as a pilot and was transferred to a navigator course, returning to UK in February 1944. He flew in Lancasters with 12 Squadron at Wickenby. He and his entire crew were given five days leave so that he could get married in January 1945.
His crew dropped food for the starving Dutch as part of Operation Manna. After the war he served with Transport Command on Yorks. He continued moving around and spent time on B-29s then Canberras at Marham. Later he and his family were sent to Kuala Lumpur then Penang on Dakotas.
On his return he was posted to Abingdon on Beverleys. This included trips to Nairobi.
He transferred to Haydock as a radio controller, after which he left the RAF and became a teacher.
Date
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2014-12
Format
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32 page typed sheets
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Personal research
Identifier
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B[Author]ParkerEv1
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 Air Force. Transport Command
United States Army Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--Liverpool
England--Knowsley (District)
England--Liverpool
England--Aintree
England--Paignton
Canada
Nova Scotia--Halifax
Saskatchewan--Moose Jaw
Manitoba--Brandon
Ontario
England--Harrogate
Germany--Chemnitz
Germany--Dresden
England--Blackpool
England--Lincoln
England--Bournemouth
India
Egypt
Libya--Tripoli
Egypt--Heliopolis (Extinct city)
Iraq
India--New Delhi
Pakistan--Karachi
Singapore
India--Kolkata
Sri Lanka--Negombo
England--King's Lynn
England--Downham Market
Iceland
United States
Delaware--Dover
New York (State)--New York
Arizona--Davis-Monthan Air Force Base
Egypt--Suez Canal
Malaysia--Kuala Lumpur
South Africa--Durban
Kenya--Nairobi
Cameroon
Sahara Desert
Nigeria--Kano
Yemen (Republic)--Aden
England--Formby
England--Haydock
England--Ormskirk
Germany--Helgoland
Québec
Québec--Montréal
Arizona
Delaware
New York (State)
Libya
Saskatchewan
Germany
Nova Scotia
Kenya
Malaysia
South Africa
Pakistan
Sri Lanka
Nigeria
Yemen (Republic)
Malaysia--George Town (Pulau Pinang)
England--Devon
England--Hampshire
England--Lancashire
England--Norfolk
England--Lincolnshire
Manitoba
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
David Bloomfield
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
1943
1944
1945
12 Squadron
148 Squadron
15 Squadron
242 Squadron
35 Squadron
47 Squadron
air gunner
aircrew
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
B-29
Blenheim
bomb aimer
C-47
Cornell
crewing up
Distinguished Flying Cross
Distinguished Flying Medal
entertainment
flight engineer
ground personnel
hangar
Heavy Conversion Unit
Initial Training Wing
Lancaster
Lincoln
love and romance
Me 109
navigator
Navy, Army and Air Force Institute
Nissen hut
Operation Manna (29 Apr – 8 May 1945)
Operational Training Unit
pilot
RAF Abingdon
RAF Blyton
RAF Dishforth
RAF Eastleigh
RAF Husbands Bosworth
RAF Lyneham
RAF Marham
RAF Oakington
RAF Paignton
RAF Shawbury
RAF Snaith
RAF Sywell
RAF Upwood
RAF Wickenby
RAF Wyton
Spitfire
Tiger Moth
training
Wellington
wireless operator
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force
York
-
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
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
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.
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
2016-10-28
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
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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
[page break]
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
[page break]
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.
[page break]
“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.”
[page break]
“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.”
[page break]
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
[page break]
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]
[page break]
[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.
[page break]
“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
[page break]
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.
[page break]
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.
[page break]
“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
[page break]
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,
[page break]
“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]
[page break]
[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.
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“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
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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.”
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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
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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,
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“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.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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[inserted] [underlined] Photograph in a book. [/underlined] [/inserted]
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[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
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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
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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.
[page break]
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
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Title
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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
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H Yeoman
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1994-11
Contributor
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Tricia Marshall
Format
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Multipage printed document
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Text. Memoir
Text. Poetry
Coverage
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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
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BYeomanHTYeomanHTv1
Rights
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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.
Publisher
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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/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
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McDermott, Colin
C McDermott
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2016-11-03
Rights
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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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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
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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
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Title
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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
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1943-06-27
Language
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eng
Type
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Photograph
Text
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MMcDermottC1119618-161216-09
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
United States Army Air Force
Spatial Coverage
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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
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IBCC Digital Archive
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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.
Creator
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Great Britain. Air Ministry
Temporal Coverage
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1943
Format
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28 page booklet
Contributor
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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/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
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Moore, Dennis
D Moore
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2015-05-06
Rights
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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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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
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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
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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
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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
9
[page break]
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
10
[page break]
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”
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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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[page break]
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
35
[page break]
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).
37
[page break]
[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
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[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).
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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
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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
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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]
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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
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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
[page break]
[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
[page break]
[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
[page break]
[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!!!
52
[page break]
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]
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Dennis Moore Autobiography
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Dennis Moore's autobiography, compiled and edited by his son, Terry Moore.
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Dennis Moore
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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
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crewing up
Distinguished Flying Cross
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Hampden
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
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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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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/1627/25334/BThickettPSaundersEJv10014.2.jpg
b04ecf5f8216aef1ccaf310e1face577
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Title
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Saunders, Ernest John. Album 1
Description
An account of the resource
A history of Sam Saunders RAF experiences complete with a biography. It is presented in an album.
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Penny Thicket
Date
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2020-02-13
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IBCC Digital Archive
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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.
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Saunders, EJ
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In August and September 1943 Daddy was with 512 Squadron and there were more transportation flights in Dakotas but the routes had changed a little, Telergma (Constantine), Tunis, Monastir, Sfax, Maison Blanche, La Senia, Blida and Gibraltar. He occasionally flew as a 2nd pilot. There was a single flight to Reykjavik from Hendon via Prestwick on the 27th of August but no details are given.
Then in October he went to 271 Squadron. This involved flying in a lot of different planes around the British Isles; Harrows, Oxfords, Dominies, Tigers, Dakotas and Proctors...flying to Doncaster, Tollerton, Dunfries, Renfrew, Errol and Donibristle. There were circuits and 'bumps' and weather tests.
He talked about being given a role of instructor during this time, which he really disliked and it appears that he asked to return to active service and so there was the move to Bomber Command.
On the 12th of December he joined 627 Squadron, Oakington Cambridge, no doubt with apprehension and excitement, flying new planes and being fully involved in this decisive phase of the war.
627 Squadron had been formed just a month earlier and was part of Pathfinder Force (PFF) within Bomber Command, famous for reconnaissance and plotting the routes to be taken by bombers. 'Bomber' Harris was their Colonel in Chief.
The fast, unarmed manoeuvrable Mosquitos were initially taken through many air tests and landings. Daddy's last war operation had been in December 1942 and it's hard to imagine how he felt at this point but he always said that he had a”...really good war”...and as a young man excited by flying, to be part of this elite group must have been everything that he wanted.
The de [sic] Havilland Mosquito Mark 1 was a twin-engine fighter-bomber, the fastest and most agile plane in the sky. It was unarmed, to reduce weight and was sent to take photographs or drop bombs and get away quickly. Despite being make of wood and canvas this was the plane all the young airmen wanted to be in.
Two weeks after joining the Squadron, on Boxing Day he carried out War Operations 46 and 47, bombing Duisberg and Cologne with 4 x 500lb bombs.
[page break]
[black and white photograph]
Members of 627 Squadron in front of a De Havilland Mosquito. Flight Lieutenant Navigator Ernest Saunders is 7th from the right, back row.
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Title
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Sam Saunders 627 Squadron
Description
An account of the resource
After a spell with 512 squadron mostly transportation flights Sam returned to the UK, flying as an instructor.
A the end of 1943 he returned to Bomber Command, 627 Squadron.
There is a photograph of the squadron grouped in front of a Mosquito.
Creator
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Penny Thickett
Date
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2013-10
Format
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One printed sheet and one b/w photograph
Language
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eng
Type
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Photograph
Text
Text. Personal research
Identifier
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BThickettPSaundersEJv10014
Coverage
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Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
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Algeria
Algeria--Algiers
Algeria--Constantine
Algeria--Oran
Gibraltar
Germany
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Duisburg
Great Britain
England--Doncaster
England--Nottingham
Scotland--Cowdenbeath
Scotland--Errol
Scotland--Renfrew
Iceland
Tunisia
Tunisia--Sfax
Tunisia--Tunis
North Africa
Iceland--Reykjavík
Tunisia--Munastīr
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Nottinghamshire
England--Yorkshire
Rights
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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.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Temporal Coverage
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1943
Contributor
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Jan Waller
627 Squadron
aircrew
bombing
C-47
Dominie
Harris, Arthur Travers (1892-1984)
Harrow
Mosquito
navigator
Oxford
Pathfinders
pilot
Proctor
RAF Dumfries
RAF Oakington
RAF Prestwick
Tiger Moth
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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/163/22401/PBanksP15020033.2.jpg
b4dadc5ecc1aacb8c06ef4849ab819ec
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Title
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Banks, Peter. Album two
Description
An account of the resource
The album contains a varied collection of photographs taken whilst based at RAF Feltwell from 1937 onwards. There are aerial views of Windsor and Buckingham Palace, Harrow aircraft, plus social and service events. Post-war he was transferred to Singapore via India and Burma. The album reflects his social life with occasional photograph of his service activities at RAF Seletar. His return to UK via Bombay at the time of Indian independence is recorded, followed by scenic shots round Wick in Scotland. Finally there are some photographs of Angkor Thom in Cambodia. It also contains pages from newspapers dated 18 and 19 June 1940. <br /><br />Return to the <a href="https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collections/show/140">main collection</a>.
Rights
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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. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
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One photograph album
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Identifier
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PBanksP1501
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Title
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Britain's middle east army: we stand firm
Description
An account of the resource
Main article - covers order to middle east army by Lieutenant General Sir Archibald Wavell and Air Chief Marshall Sir Arthur Longmore to fight on and that Egypt had been asked to declare war on Italy. Other headlines: ford to make 6000 air engines, naval base fire, Canadian troops on Iceland and RAF again bomb Ruhr oil stores.
Publisher
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Daily Sketch
Date
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1940-06-19
Format
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One newspaper page
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Photograph
Identifier
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PBanksP15020033
Coverage
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Civilian
British Army
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Spatial Coverage
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Iceland
Egypt
Germany
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
Temporal Coverage
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1940-06
Rights
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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.
bombing
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https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/711/17279/MBlairJJ[Ser -DoB]-160509-01.pdf
e2e9d8182bf6e54b5b01c95e7baedfa6
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Title
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Blair, John
John Jericho Blair
J J Blair
Description
An account of the resource
38 items. The collection concerns John Jericho Blair DFC (1919-2004). He was born in Jamaica and served in RAF from 1942-1963. He flew a tour of operations as a navigator with 102 Squadron from RAF Pocklington. The collection includes numerous photographs of him and colleagues, several photographs of Jamaica, a document detailing his life and an interview with his great nephew Mark Johnson.
The collection also contains three interviews with Caribbean veterans including John Blair recorded by Mark Johnson.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Mark Johnson and catalogued by Barry Hunter.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
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2016-05-09
Rights
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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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Blair, JJ
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Permission granted for commercial projects
Transcribed document
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Transcription
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The Story of Flight Lieutenant John J Blair, DFC 102 (Ceylon) Squadron and 216 Squadron Royal Air Force
1942 to 1963
Author’s Note
This story is primarily the transcript of a taped interview with my Uncle John Blair that took place in 1997. Following the creation of the raw transcript, I researched several aspects of the story to fill in some gaps. Very sadly, Uncle John began to suffer the effects of Alzheimer’s Disease soon after I spoke to him, and he was unable to review this text. Any errors of fact contained in the story are therefore mine.
Mark Johnson
London, 2008
Chapter 1: On the Pedro Plains
Let’s start the story from the beginning, bearing in mind the fact that I was born way back in 1919. This was in the Pedro Plains district of the Parish of St. Elizabeth, in south‐western Jamaica – a real country parish where families barely got by on farming and fishing.
There were eight children in my family and I happened to be the last one. In fact, I really came out of the blue because the sibling I followed was seven years ahead of me. So I was the “little last one”, what they used to call in those days a “wash belly” child. Well anyway, there I was and so off I went, trying to catch up with the rest of my family.
Life in rural Jamaica had a very slow pace back then, there being no motor vehicles around, no television or radio, no electricity in fact, nor anything else that depended on that. Our farming and fishing community was labour intensive and used techniques that go way back to the olden days. Life followed the seasons; not those of the northern hemisphere, but ‘rainy season’, ‘hurricane season’ and even ‘mango season’!
We experienced long, dry, hot periods in Pedro Plains and rainfall has always been scarce there. The soil is very red and it’s a dusty place, with few trees. At many points sharp limestone rocks stick up out of the ground like little mountain peaks. When I was a child, most people still lived in thatched cottages. You made do and you recycled everything.
One of my brothers and two sisters, as well as my brother‐in‐law were all teachers, and in time the two men rose to prominent positions in the field of education in Jamaica. In those days, teachers were amongst a group of people who were held in high esteem within the community, as were nurses and doctors, veterinarians, police constables and the local postmistress. Nowadays it’s all about lawyers, politicians, musicians, gunmen and drug dealers, but back then, in Jamaica at least, we still lived by the old values.
As I was so much younger than my brothers and sisters, I didn’t have the opportunity to go to school at the same time as them. In fact, when I eventually started school one of my sisters, Jemima Blair, was already the teacher there. In the 1920s these country schools were tiny places with only a single class made up of children of all ages, and just the one teacher. This was old style primary education. The teacher stood at the front of the class and taught, while we sat at our little wooden tables and recited. When you weren’t supposed to be reciting, you kept quiet or else you would know what was coming next; a good hiding! You didn’t raise your hand and ask questions; questions were asked of you, and you had better know the answer.
I actually started school before I had reached the required age at that time, which was seven. I started at the age of five, and this created some interesting problems. One day there came a visit by a School Inspector. (In those days of British colonial government, the Inspectors were all Englishmen – we would have called them ‘white men’.) I recall that I was literally pushed out of the back of the building by my sister when the Inspector arrived so that questions about my age would not arise!
I remained in school in St. Elizabeth until I was ten years old and then my parents were forced to move away for work for a while, and my eldest sister, Clarissa, took me in. She was also a teacher and had married yet another teacher, a Mr. Enos Bertram Johnson, or ‘E.B.’ Johnson as he was called.
They lived in a teacher’s cottage in the parish of St. Mary, almost at the other end of the island. Mr. Johnson was a serious and imposing figure and a respected educator. He also led the local scout troop and I can remember the boys parading, all smartly dressed in their khaki uniforms, but barefoot – most of them could not afford shoes in those days. I spent about a year and a half with the Johnsons until my brother Stanley returned home from the Cayman Islands. Stanley was the other teacher in my family, and he later became a School Inspector himself. I moved to live with him where he was teaching in St. Ann and eventually, after yet another move, Ocho Rios is where we ended up.
Stanley’s teacher’s cottage was a ramshackle affair and in very poor condition. There was little in it in the way of furniture or fittings and things were so tough for the pair of us that as soon as my parents had returned to Pedro Plains, I was sent home. In reality, home was not much better than my brothers’ cottage that I had just escaped from. Nevertheless, I spent the rest of my time in elementary school there and, all in all, I can say that I received a good basic education.
When I reached the age of seventeen, I decided to become a teacher like many of my siblings and I made an attempt to enter the Mico Training College in Kingston as a trainee. Mico was highly regarded and competition for places there was intense. It took two attempts, but eventually I was successful and I spent three years at the College, and experienced life in the ‘big city’. I left there as a qualified teacher in elementary education and I soon joined the Greenwich School near Tinson Pen, Kingston where I taught for about a year and a half.
By now the Second World War had been in progress for a year and many local people were volunteering to serve in uniform, irrespective of their qualifications. Some were selected to do manual labour and others were considered capable of more sophisticated activities. Although we lived far from the centre of things, we all knew about what was taking place in Europe. In those days our educational curriculum was set by the Colonial Government, and it was essentially the same as that studied by English children. We were therefore more familiar with British history than we were with our own, and goings on in the war with Germany had been well publicised. I recall that a couple of my younger Johnson nephews in Kingston (E.B. and Clarissa’s sons) kept a map of Europe on their bedroom wall, and plotted the course of the war from the information they heard on the BBC news broadcasts. Their hero was the Soviet general, Zhukov.
The general view of Hitler was that he was a man who needed to be stopped. Although a lot of Jamaicans resented colonial rule, I don’t think anyone was confused about the difference between that and what the Nazis stood for. We felt that we were all in it together – all the small countries of the world.
So, it was with this attitude that I applied to the Royal Air Force (RAF) as ‘aircrew’, and I was accepted for training. Up until this time the official British policy was that only 'British born men, of British born parents, of pure European descent' could receive officer’s commissions in any of the services. The RAF was the first to relax the restriction as their officer casualties had been so high in relation to the other services, but the colour ban was not lifted in the Navy or the Army until 1948. It was for this reason that so many of the West Indian volunteers opted for the air force. Altogether, I understand that about a thousand West Indians served as RAF aircrew during the Second World War, while thousands also served in various ground staff capacities.
Having returned home briefly to bid farewell to my family, I left St Elizabeth on the fish truck that ran to Kingston regularly from in front of the old Post Office. My nephew George Henry was amongst those gathered to see me off and he told me much later that his earliest childhood memory is of me coming to say goodbye to his mother Jemima – my sister and former teacher. George was about three when I set off and he remembers that behind the Post Office fence there was a lot of broken glass lying on the ground. He thought at the time that this was where the war was!
That trip to Kingston on the fish truck was no small affair – it took hours. When we left St Elizabeth and started the long climb up Spur Tree Hill towards the town of Mandeville, the truck would begin to overheat. The brakes were so poor that when we stopped to top up the radiator, we had to jump down quickly and ‘cotch’ the rear wheels with large stones, otherwise the thing would just roll backwards down the hill and a lot of fish would be lost! In those days, by the time you got to Kingston you were in need of a vacation.
After a short period of orientation at Up Park Camp in Kingston about thirty of us, all RAF volunteers, left the island by ship in October 1942, bound ultimately for Canada. We were off to commence our training for war. So there I was, a 23 year old elementary school teacher from Pedro Plains, St Elizabeth, Jamaica, on my way to fly against the Nazi war machine.
Chapter 2: Cold Like the Devil!
Our journey from Jamaica was really quite comical at the outset. We were ordered to board an American ship and I remember the crew just looking at us coldly and pointing below decks, saying ‘You all go down there’; remember that in most parts a black man couldn’t even vote back then! When we descended to the first level, we saw a lot of empty bunks, so everyone selected a bed and we started to make ourselves at home. However, we did not have time to get too comfortable because within a few minutes an officer appeared and shouted, ‘No, not here, go down two more levels!’ And so we volunteers spent the rest of our time on that ship sitting in the hold!
This was my first time on the open sea, and my first time out of Jamaica, so I was fortunate to be in a good group. That ship pitched and rolled like crazy, and it was dark, hot and damp down there in the hold. Several men were sick and the smell in that confined place got quite bad, which didn’t help.
We stopped for a short time in British Honduras, as it was known then (now Belize) where we took on board some forestry workers who had volunteered for labour duties, as well as a few more RAF fellows. I chatted with some of the workers as our enlarged group squatted down below decks, and they said they were going to Scotland where they would be working in the forests, cutting timber – or so they believed. They probably ended up loading cargo, in the rain, in an English port somewhere.
We travelled together as far as New Orleans where we all disembarked, with a great deal of relief. The RAF party then travelled up to New York and spent about two weeks there waiting to be told where we should go next. This was an opportunity to have a good look around, and we made full use of it. Leo Balderamos from Belize joined me on a trip to the top of the Empire State Building, then the tallest structure ever built. Now that was something! Finally our orders arrived and we set off once again, bound for the largest RAF station in Canada, Monkton in New Brunswick.
That camp covered many acres and held a large number of trainees. I don’t know how many people were there in total, because all students coming from various parts of the United Kingdom to do their Air Force training came through there. Whether you were bound for training in Canada or in the United States, you would be shipped through this base, so it was a very, very large place indeed, swarming with recruits. Before we left Monkton, we got our first issue of uniforms and we were given our basic training.
This ‘basic training’ activity had nothing to do with flying; it was just the initial qualification for getting into any of the services. A lot of our time was taken up with morning parades, and this parade and that parade, and saluting here and saluting there, stamping your feet at every chance, and using rifles, which I had never touched before in my life. It was quite an initiation.
Our first uniforms were uncomfortable and they made you itch. In addition to the trousers and jacket, we had a heavy greatcoat and great big, black leather boots, with nails in the sole. These made a crisp sound as you marched and you felt as though you were already set to jump on the Germans. We had brass buttons to clean every night, as well as our boots, and lots of brass bits all over our belts and webbing. A lot of cleaning and polishing had to be done and the evenings were generally spent sitting on the edge of our bunks in the barrack room, shining our gear, and telling jokes or speculating about the future.
We left Monkton at the end of November 1942, there being twenty‐one of us remaining in our group now, and we were sent to an RCAF (Royal Canadian Air Force) training base. We spent more time there being familiarised with the Canadian military and Air Force systems.
Our group was what we would today describe as ‘multi‐cultural’. There were only two Englishmen and the group covered all shades from black to white to grey! One of the Englishmen was a teacher like me, although he taught at a college in the UK, and the other had been living in Belize. In those days it was common practice to describe a man by his colour, and it wasn’t necessarily derogatory – it depended on the tone and context. We all travelled together and lived together without tension.
After about three weeks of further basic training we were sent to Toronto. It was here that we would be classified for different roles, so this was a critical period for anyone who had ambitions to fly. We had lectures and exams on a variety subjects and the results determined which end of the airfield you were destined for. This was our ‘ironing out’ phase.
Those who failed to qualify for flight training went off to be trained for ground staff roles while those who had qualified were assigned to the next phase of training, in preparation for flying school or navigator’s training. The process really was conducted purely on the basis of qualifications, not race. Our two Englishmen were selected for preliminary flight training from our group, as was Arthur Wint (the famous Jamaican athlete) LO Lynch from Jamaica (who later won the prestigious) RAF Air Gunner’s Trophy) Leo Balderamos from Belize, and myself.
We spent quite a long time in this stage of training, and this was in the deep, dark Canadian winter, which I had never experienced before. I can remember that the snow was up around your knees if you were not careful where you went walking. Once they had broken us down into groups, those of us who were selected for flying were sent to McGill University, where we spent about 4 weeks in the classroom. Suddenly, myself
and Arthur Wint were sent to a special school up in Ottawa. Whatever unearthly reason there was for this was not explained at the time – it seemed the authorities had just pulled our two names up out of a hat. They hadn’t even made provision for our accommodation and we had to sort that out ourselves. Anyway, off we went as ordered, and on arrival it dawned on us that the Canadians had somehow got the idea that we didn’t know anything about maths.
When these special classes started, we realized that we were being taught the most basic levels of algebra and trigonometry and on the very first day we looked at each other and said, ‘This is a joke!’ Arthur said to me, ‘Look, let’s try and see what we can do to show these people who we actually are’.
When the teacher came into the room for the second session he set up a simple algebraic calculation on the blackboard and Arthur spoke up and asked him to set us a tougher challenge. The fellow looked at Arthur and said ‘Alright’; you could see that he thought Arthur was going to make a mess of it. Arthur got up and solved the problem on the board, and I recall that it was quite a complex one. Well, all I can tell you is that in no time flat we were back in training with the rest of our group!
Not long after this, almost as compensation, Arthur and I were sent on another special training course. This time we arrived at our destination to find that the course was an advanced flying course for experienced pilots. Once again, we were sent packing! Confusion reigned!
We now went to what was known as the Initial Training Wing. This was more advanced than anything we had done before and the place had a very modern feel to it. We knew that when we finished this stage of training we would be assigned our area of specialisation, becoming trainee pilots, navigators or bomb aimers. Although Arthur and I were joining a week late we joined forces and quickly caught up with the group.
Not long after we arrived, we were told that we had to attend a flying medical, which is more difficult to pass than the basic medical all servicemen and women had to take. At this stage, my flying career almost ended before I got off the ground.
We’d been out drinking up in Montreal, and we got back to base by train at about four o’clock in the morning. Almost as soon as we had arrived I heard a voice call out, ‘Blair! Medical!’ It took them all of ten minutes to ‘wash me out’ of aircrew!
I was now an outcast, sent away to what was known as the ‘Holding School’ in Toronto. This was an old exhibition hall, made up of several huge buildings with a variety of strange fixtures here and there (now empty) for the displays. I was alone as I left my group behind, and I arrived at the Holding School alone. It was a horrible feeling and when you walked into the place there were bunk beds stretching away as far as you could see ‐ nothing but beds! Anyway, at least I got a bed for myself this time.
Within this facility there was a holding office specifically for RAF people who had failed their courses and were going back to England without doing flight training. So it appeared that I too would go to England without any training, and with all these strange Englishmen! And boy, let me tell you, I had never seen so many of them in one place before. There were about five hundred men in my area alone, and if you take into account the whole compound, there were probably several thousand men there waiting to be shipped home. But I was there now on my own as I didn’t know anybody else in this large assembly.
After about three weeks cooling my heels, feeling rather low about my plight, I went and saw the Canadian Medical Officer. I told him what the problem was, and he said ‘Alright, we’ll give you another try’. He ran a series of tests, most of which involved looking at various coloured pictures and telling him what I saw. It was a hell of a job to do but I just told him what I saw and the very next day I was given a full medical. Two days later everything was cleared up and the MO called me to his office and said
‘Alright, we are going to send you back to the training school.’ That was a relief, I can tell you.
However, as I had missed almost a month of classes, I was now placed in a new group, and I was the only Jamaican, the only coloured man there; all my coloured friends had gone on ahead. This was a new experience for me, but as it turned out it was not a problem at all. I was treated just like another member of the team. In fact, I never had any problems with racism or unfair treatment throughout my career in the Royal Air Force, right up to 1963. This might be because I felt I knew what the dangers were and I didn’t expose myself to them. But I believe that one’s attitude was the most important factor.
I focused on the task at hand, and towards the end of this period I was informed that I had been selected for Navigator training. This was quite a responsibility because after the Pilot, the Navigator is the key man in the crew. I would have to navigate the route to and from the target, normally at night, using some complicated scientific aids, and often while under attack.
I was told that I had to know my aircraft’s position at any time, regardless of bad weather or enemy action to ensure the survival of aircraft and crew. This would all involve working constantly during any flight to keep my aircraft and its crew on track and on schedule. With my head down over the maps and instruments I would always be aware of the fact that any deviation from the prescribed course can take the aircraft across the path of the hundreds of other craft in the stream behind me, or leave us prey for enemy night fighters. Great concentration would be required, and for much of the flight the only contact I would have with the rest of the crew would be a few instructions and remarks on the intercom.
At flight school we flew a total of sixty four hour’s day flying and thirty eight hour’s night flying between 5th September 1942 and 28th January 1943, before we took our examinations and attempted to qualify. I passed the Navigator’s Course, which included
Navigation, Signals, Aircraft Recognition, Photography, Armament Training, and Day and Night Flying. It was intensive as we worked seven days a week, and very comprehensive, but enjoyable, and we were feeling increasingly confident about our potential. However, at this stage you were not yet ready for operations, no matter how cocky you might be feeling. In operational terms, you were just a baby that’s learning to walk, only half ready for the real thing.
We trained on Ansons, twin‐engine things, and the only navigational equipment we had back then was a map, a compass and a radio you had to tune in order to obtain your bearings. You had nobody else there to help you. The Anson only had room for the pilot, myself sitting behind him, and a second trainee Navigator who would sit in the co‐pilot’s seat. The other trainee and I would alternate, and whoever was navigating would scribble directions on course and airspeed for the pilot onto message pads and pass them forwards. The second Navigator would practice map reading as well, and also wind the landing gear up after takeoff and down before landing.
I remember my first flight as though it were yesterday. We squeezed into the aircraft, weighed down with all our gear, and sat there a while waiting for things to start. I was looking out of one of the windows at the little strip of runway beside me and thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ The Pilot goes through his procedure, flicking a few switches and calling out the steps on his checklist. Then the port engine makes a kind of whining sound, then a splutter with lots of black smoke being whirled around by the propellers, and finally the engine roars into life and the whole aircraft starts to vibrate. That black smoke is worrying the first time you see it, but you soon get used to it.
The Pilot goes through the same procedure for the starboard engine, and before you realise what’s happening you are rolling down the runway. You speed up slowly, bumping along, and finally the Pilot heaves back on the stick and the aircraft seems to claw its way into the air. Looking out of the window, I could see the buildings, roads and fields diminishing in size below me until they looked like little toy structures.
You didn’t really go anywhere, each flight being a set piece event lasting between two and three hours, navigating from waypoint to waypoint. We also had to do of bombing exercises against dummy targets, so it was starting to feel like the real thing. I still have a picture of that particular course with only one black man in it! The rest are all Canadians and there’s that old Anson behind us.
Once I had completed this phase of training I was sent back to Monkton. On the way I stopped off in Toronto to visit one of the people I got to know there when I was at the Holding School, and who should I see while I was sitting at the railway station but Arthur Wint! Out of nowhere, there he was, big and tall, walking up to me. I was surprised, but happy to see him. Like me, he was now wearing a little white flash on his cap, to indicate that we were now ‘Flying Trainees’.
So after a long period without the company of my countrymen, I was able to travel with Arthur, back to Monkton. And we were big men now! Qualified! Arthur was a Pilot and I was a Navigator – it was a good feeling and we knew that we were part of a small group who had achieved something unique for that period in history. I remember that when we got to Monkton it was cold like the Devil! Oh man, the snow was falling, let me tell you, and I can still see Arthur and I struggling through it with all our bits and pieces. We were reminded that we were Officers now, and so we went to live in the Officers’ section of the base. We were well taken care of there and we met up with more Jamaicans who had also qualified. I recall that one of them was a Navigator and the other was a Bomb Aimer, but I no longer remember their names.
Although we were officers, we didn’t hear very much more about the progress of the war than we got on the news and in the papers. So, with all the training and preparation we had been doing we were just hoping to get into the front line before it was all over. It was now January 1944, and we knew that the Allies were winning. We were ordered to board ship once more, but this time we were bound for the UK and the war. There were still three of us from the original group travelling together, Arthur Wint, myself and one other.
We didn’t sail as part of a convoy although submarines were still active at that time. We sailed from Halifax on a huge troopship full of Canadians and landed in Glasgow. On this voyage we weren’t stuck in the hold, but space below decks was very limited all the same because of the large number on men on board. During the entire voyage I didn’t see another vessel and I know that we went far to the north, close to Iceland before turning south again. This route was the best for avoiding enemy submarines, although nobody mentioned that threat.
On arrival we were given forms to take to the local tailors, and there we were fitted for our new Officer’s uniforms. These were a great improvement on the kit we had been wearing up to that point. We were due some leave, but before we could head out into public view we had to get ourselves properly dressed.
There was no negative reaction to us at all from the people we met around our base ‐ they were glad to see us. For us, however, it was a very strange feeling at first to put on our new uniforms and walk into an English pub, although a few pints gave us some relief from the great pressure we felt. People expressed gratitude when they saw us. We would walk into a pub full of strangers and within a few moments someone would walk over and say ‘Please have a beer with me’. These were Yorkshire men and I will always have fond memories of those kind and friendly people.
It took us a fortnight to get fully kitted out, and as soon as we had achieved that we all headed in to London to enjoy our three week’s leave. The RAF had reserved hotels for its personnel in the city, and we were given free accommodation in one of these. We spent the next three weeks touring the city and seeing its famous sights for the first time, and of course drinking occasionally.
When we returned to our base in Yorkshire we were sent on a Battle Course which included the use of weapons in combat and many other aspects of infantry training – this was done in case we were shot down over enemy territory and had to fight to survive. Next it was back onto the Ansons for familiarisation flying over the UK. There
was a big difference between navigating in the wide open spaces of Canada where you really can’t lose your way, and England, where there is a new town every few miles which makes it much more confusing and challenging.
We were closer than ever to the day when we would have to go to war and once the familiarisation was finished we were posted to RAF Kinloss in Scotland. This was the stage when Pilots, Engineers, Gunners, and Bomb Aimers would be teamed up to form the crews who would fly and fight together. We were assembled in a large group in a cold hangar, and I don’t think any of us knew more than five or six of the other people in the group. Each Pilot was simply told, ‘Pick the rest of your crew’ from the group, and he would just walk around and pick people he liked the look of. Now, I was the only coloured man there as neither Arthur Wint nor the other Jamaican fellow who had come with us from Monkton had been posted to Kinloss.
So, I just stood there in this cold, noisy hangar and eventually a Canadian Pilot who was older than the average and who turned out to be very quiet person, came up to me and asked, ‘Will you come and fly with me?’ This was Ralph Pearson who would be my Pilot for the duration of the war. He then selected the two Gunners, one of whom was named Morris, and the Flight Engineer, Laurie Wilder, as well as his Wireless Operator. The Bomb Aimer would join us later, and he also turned out to be a Canadian. We were all strangers in this crew of seven. In a sense it’s an effective, if haphazard process, but at the same time you are now going off to war with a group of strangers, without so much as a formal introduction. Of course, we would soon get to know each other much better, and the strangers would become human, with good points and bad like any other person.
To start the process of building crew spirit and cohesion we were assigned a rather old aircraft now, a twin‐engine Whitley. We spent four weeks flying that old Whitley, and when I look back on it now I can only say that we must have been mad! That was an old aircraft! But it was tough. The Whitleys were solidly built because they were
designed just before the start of the war when the British realised they would have to fight, but it was built with pre‐war knowledge and this was by now a modern war.
Looking at my flying log today, I realise that we had to learn very quickly; fifty hours flying is not much time to prepare to fight with a new crew. As the Navigator, I was now using a radio system called Gee. This gave me directional readings from a beam transmitted from the ground. We had none of the new radar systems that some of the heavy bombers were equipped with. We only had the radio bearing from various points, a look out of the window to plot our track on the ground when the cloud cover allowed, and the Met reports – if you could actually find the wind blowing in the right direction that would put you on track and help you to stay on track.
Chapter 3: The Real Thing
Finally, our long and exhaustive training was over and we were considered ready for posting to an operational squadron – we were off to war. I was posted to 102 (Ceylon) Squadron, based at Pocklington in Yorkshire. During the Second World War the Squadron flew bombers, first Whitleys, and then the Halifax 2 from 1942 to 1944. In 1944 they were upgraded to the Halifax 3 and then with the Halifax 6 in early 1945, and I flew the last two Halifax models during my tour of duty.
The addition of the word ‘Ceylon’ was granted to the Squadron after the inhabitants of what we now call Sri Lanka adopted the Squadron and set aside some of their savings towards its maintenance. The squadron was made up of men from Great Britain, Canada, Ceylon, the West Indies, Australia and New Zealand, among other places.
The squadron history says that 102 (Ceylon) saw non‐stop action over Europe from 1939 to 1945. In 1944 the Squadron flew its highest number of sorties. (A sortie means one aircraft on one operational mission). 2,280 were flown of which 308 took place in August. The Squadron supported the D‐Day landings in June 1944 in Normandy, bombing a coastal gun battery that could have opposed the Allied operation. Other major targets during the war included Berlin, Cologne, Frankfurt, Hamburg, Munich, and the Ruhr industrial area, Turin, Genoa and Milan, all of which were struck from our base in Yorkshire.
I arrived at the squadron in December 1944 and if you just look at a sample from the list of 102’s losses for that period you can get a hint of what we were about to face. We lost eight aircraft out of a total of twenty four in just the first three weeks following my arrival, and six of those went down over Germany – that’s 50% losses in less than a month, and I still had five months of wartime flying ahead of me!
24 Dec 1944 – Halifax MZ871DY‐G, target Mülheim, crashed near Neuss, Germany, two crewmembers killed, one missing, four taken prisoner.
24 Dec 1944 – Halifax LW168DY‐O, target Mülheim, hit by flak and crashed near Krefeld, Germany, one crewmember killed, one missing, five taken prisoner.
29 Dec 1944 – Halifax MZ426DY‐D, target Koblenz, damaged in combat, one crewman wounded.
01 Jan 1945 – Halifax LW158DY‐P, target Dortmund, undershot on landing and hit house, entire crew injured.
02 Jan 1945 – Halifax NR186, training, overshot and crashed, crew uninjured.
05 Jan 1945 – Halifax MZ796DY‐M, target Hannover, hit by flak and crashed at Neustadt, Germany, five crewmen killed, two taken prisoner.
05 Jan 1945 – Halifax LL597DY‐X, target Hannover, shot down over Germany, five crewmen killed, three taken prisoner.
05 Jan 1945 – Halifax NA602DY‐Y, target Hannover, shot down over Germany, seven crewmen killed, one taken prisoner.
16 Jan 1945 – Halifax LW179DY‐Y, target Magdeburg, shot down over Germany, all eight crewmen killed.
So, this was it. We had a short familiarisation course on the Halifax, just twenty one daylight hours and eight at night and then we were thrown into the thick of it; “There’s your plane, there’s the target, now get on with it”!
Our first flight was a bombing exercise with the new aircraft, because it was even more sophisticated than the one on which we had done our training. We also did some cross‐country flying to ensure that we were familiar with the country around our base. This was on a Halifax Mark III. The crew was all lined up by now, and a good crew it was too! Together we would survive the next five months of battle, and thirty three bombing missions over Germany, without a single casualty.
Sixty years on, I am embarrassed to admit that I can’t recall all the names. However, the Pilot was the Canadian from Vancouver, Pearson, who had first picked me
out of the crowd in that hangar in Scotland. I remember that the two Gunners were Englishmen, one for the mid‐upper turret, and one for the tail. The Wireless Operator or Radio Operator was a Scottish fellow, the Engineer was an English gentleman from around Liverpool, the Bomb Aimer was from Canada, and of course there was I –all the way from Jamaica! It was an international crew all right, but we all got on well together, and worked as a tight knit team.
We all had to learn the special language of the air force. Many people, particularly the more senior officers, really did talk in the fashion that you only hear in old war films today. By now, this manner of speech had become a habit for me also, and I recall that when I returned home it caused some amusement.
On the 21st of December 1944 we took off for the real thing. The target for our first operational mission was Cologne, classified as an ‘Industrial Target’ and the scene of many casualties on both sides during this stage of the war.
A lot goes on during a mission, both before and after takeoff, and much of it is just a blur now. I had been afraid of feeling fear, if you understand what I mean, but when the time came I found that I had so much to do that I simply didn’t have time for feelings. I experienced this on all the operational trips I made ‐ you just don’t have time for it. During the flight you have to make sure that you stay with your group and your timing must be absolutely right. There is simply no room for error.
During our briefing we were told when to get to each waypoint, one after the other, and finally the time to be at the bomb release point, which was absolute and inflexible. You see there was not just one aircraft on missions like this; there would be hundreds of planes up there with you, sometimes as many as a thousand. We would typically have two hundred or more aircraft attacking any on one target at a time. We would fly to the target in a long column of aircraft, called the ‘bomber stream’ and you needed to know exactly which section you were in, where you were in relation to the
other sections of the stream, and where you needed to be next, to avoid colliding with any of the hundreds of planes in the air around you.
Collisions were commonplace and they caused many casualties. It wasn’t unheard of for the bomb load to detonate as well, and I know of at least one case where this happened and three nearby aircraft were brought down, along with the one that exploded first.
Let me try to describe the experience of setting off on my first mission. I had finished an intensive and extended period of training and I felt ready for this first operational flight, but let me tell you, it’s not an easy thing to do; it’s a hard, hard thing. That first morning we were all told that we were scheduled to fly that night. ‘On duty tonight’ they said. We were given this warning at about ten o’clock in the morning, and the mission took place between ten that night and two o’clock the following morning. In that four hour period we would have had to complete the total course to the target, drop our bombs and get back to the UK, but as the Navigator I also had a lot of work to do in the time remaining before takeoff.
We had lunch, and then, clutching our navigational charts, the navigators from each Squadron aircraft headed off to our briefing, where we were told the identity of the target and the track to be flown. Most of the crew was still in the dark, and didn’t yet know where we were going, so they had more time to ponder. I took out my maps and drew in the route. This zigzag course is designed to confuse the enemy. It was made up of a series of legs, each ending at a waypoint, and each going in a different direction, because if you just fly straight to the target, the enemy will be fully prepared, ready and waiting.
Walking out to the aircraft for that first operational flight was like walking through deep mud, or a strong wind. I felt as though we were moving in slow motion and my legs didn’t seem to want to carry me out there. Mentally though, I wouldn’t say I was afraid as such. I was just unusually aware of my surroundings and completely focused
on the task at hand to the exclusion of all other thoughts. The time for thinking was past; it was time for action now.
I sat at my little table with the charts laid out before me, and listened to the talk on the intercom as the Pilot went through the now familiar procedures for takeoff. Then we were trundling over the surface of the airfield towards the runway, the four engines drowning out all other sounds. A brief pause at the end of the runway followed, while we awaited clearance to takeoff from the Controller. Then the engines went to maximum power as Pilot Officer Pearson set the throttles to full, and we started to bounce and vibrate our way down the runway, gradually picking up speed, before straining into the air. The vibration ended, the undercarriage came up with a heavy ‘thunk’ and we were airborne. Eventually the engines settled to a steady drone, and we turned and climbed to form up with the rest of the Squadron. The takeoff and ensuing climb allowed us to gain the prescribed height, but the real action began when we crossed the English coastline and headed towards Europe.
The pilot didn’t have the vast array of gauges and instruments that the pilots of a modern bomber possess. There was an altimeter, to show the current height above sea level, a tachometer to display airspeed, an attitude indicator that showed the angle of the aircraft relative to the horizon, RPM indicators for each of the four engines, a compass and a few other dials. Flying a heavily loaded bomber in congested airspace with none of today’s tools required real skill and could be physically demanding.
In those old Halifax’s and even in the Lancaster I flew in later, the Navigator couldn’t see or hear much at all. I sat behind a little curtain because I didn’t want to expose a light that might attract a night fighter. We kept red lights on to read the maps and the fighter would be on the lookout for any little flash of light in the black sky. Initially, he would have used radar to find your approximate location, but in those days radar wasn’t yet accurate enough to guide him precisely to you. The Germans had jet fighters in the air as well at this stage of the war, and let me tell you, they didn’t waste time – quick as the devil those things were.
The two gunners had a different perspective. The Mid‐Upper Turret Gunner had his head literally protruding from the top of the aircraft, protected from the elements by a Perspex cone. This gunner would be constantly revolving his turret throughout the flight, scanning 360 degrees for any sign of enemy aircraft. The Tail Gunner sat alone at the rear of the plane and he had a more limited field of view. His mount was a ball‐ shaped device that also protruded form the body of the aircraft, and he could swivel his guns left and right, but to a limited extent.
As I said, I couldn’t see a great deal from my position and for most of the journey I had my head down over my charts and instruments, working hard to keep us on track. In addition to several maps of northwest Europe and a collection of odd bits of paper, protractors, rulers and various coloured pencils, I had repeats of the altimeter, airspeed indicator, and the compass in front of me. I recall that next to these in a Lancaster was also a device called the Air Position Indicator which indicated our latitudes and longitudes, but I don’t recall whether we had this tool in the older Halifax bombers. Occasionally, I would get up to take a quick look outside to check the Met and get a fix on our position, but while we were over the target I couldn’t see the effect of our bombs or indeed any of the flak that was exploding outside the aircraft.
So, the work of guiding the pilot there and guiding him home again, is the navigator’s, and it’s is hard work I can tell you. And while we were doing this twisting and turning there were hundreds of other aircraft in the black night sky beside us, above us, below us, everywhere, but you couldn’t see a single one. This entire thing was done at night!
I recall that for this mission we were divided into three waves, and these were further broken down into flights of aircraft. Our wave, the first, would be over the target at midnight, and we would take ten minutes to pass over it, releasing our payload of bombs as we went. The first flight would bomb at the appointed time precisely, while the flight behind would bomb a minute later, and the next flight a minute after them until the entire wave of bombers had finished and the second wave would start. So it
stretched on over a fairly long period of time, and a large slice of the sky, and in order to be on time you had to work out exactly what your speed needed to be with great accuracy. Getting that right was very important indeed.
The first thing we noted as we approached the enemy coast was the searchlights and we knew that German night fighters were out there in the dark looking for us. Then, as we approached Cologne there were more searchlights and lots of flak (anti‐ aircraft fire) over the target. The actual bombing run, the last leg leading in to the target, only took about ten minutes between the time we turned onto it and the time we released our bombs. When the bombs fell from the bomb bay, in the belly of the aircraft, the plane leapt upwards as it was now much lighter. I felt my heart leap upwards as well, happy to be rid of all that high explosive. After the bombs were safely away, we twisted and turned as we left the target in case there were enemy fighter aircraft waiting to hit us, and then we made our way home through the dark, back to our base away over the sea.
Once we had cleared the target and cleared the zone where we could expect to meet enemy night‐fighters, I felt quite relaxed. I think that my experience was shared by many other crew members. We had too much work to do and everything you did had to be re‐checked, because you can’t make mistakes. A mistake in those conditions could be fatal.
Throughout the flight I could hear the other crew members talking on the intercom. When the gunners spotted a fighter they would call out its position and the whole crew would be aware of the threat. If you were some distance from the target you could manoeuvre up and down, but not sideways. Once in the bomber stream you can’t go left or right, and if you were to turn in there, across the path of the stream, God help you!
On that first night we had attacked the important Cologne/Nippes rail marshalling yards which were being used to serve the final German offensive in the Ardennes. No
aircraft were lost and the target was cloud‐covered, so only a few bombs hit the railway yards but I later read that these caused the destruction of 40 wagons, a repair workshop and several railway lines.
I don’t know if photographs of the results of that raid are still available, but the picture below, showing the Giessen yards in March 1945 will give you some idea of what was involved. In the centre you can just make out the railway tracks with several trains on them, and all around you can see the craters made by the bombs when they detonated.
Three days later, on the 24th December, Christmas Eve, we set out on our second operational mission (‘Ops II’ as it’s called in my log book) to bomb Mülheim. There were ‘bags’ of flak waiting for us and the attack was what we called ‘a complete hang up’; a nasty business. Altogether there were 338 aircraft on this mission, attacking the airfields at Lohausen and Mülheim (now Düsseldorf and Essen civil airports).
Three Halifax aircraft on the Mülheim raid were shot down, two of which were from my squadron. I later learned that of the fourteen men who went down in those two aircraft, three were confirmed killed, nine were taken prisoner and two were listed as missing. I think the missing men eventually turned out to have died.
You see, the danger we faced was not just in the air. Even if you were shot and down, managed to escape the aircraft and parachute to the ground you were still in a great deal of danger as you were descending on the very people you had been engaged in bombing only a few minutes earlier. When you think about it, it’s really amazing that anyone was ever taken prisoner.
While I flew that second ‘Op’, Sergeant Arnie Coope and his crew from 102 Squadron were among the three crews shot down. This is what he later wrote about his experience on that night.
“As I hung suspended, (in my parachute) frightened and all alone, I watched the rest of our bombers complete their mission and head back home for the Christmas festivities and at this stage I looked at my watch – it was only 1430 hours.
“As I neared the ground, I could see people converging towards where I was expected to land and I got the distinct impression that I was shot at several times. I thought that I had better do something about this so I jerked around in the harness and just hung limp until I hit the ground with a thump. I was immediately surrounded by a hostile crowd, but before they could do something to me, soldiers arrived.”
It’s a very sad thing, but the truth is that some of 102 (Ceylon) Squadron crews shot down on the same mission were lynched by angry mobs of German civilians. You can only speculate on the chances of survival for a Jamaican airman landing in Hitler’s Reich! Luckily for me, I was in one of those aircraft that Arnie Coope could see, still flying overhead.
Ops III and IV saw us heading to Koblenz on the 29th, when Halifax MZ426DY‐D was damaged in combat and one crewman was wounded, and then back to Cologne on the 30th of December. In spite of the damage to one of our squadron aircraft, no aircraft were lost and at least part of the bombing of each raid hit the railway areas. The Koblenz‐Lützel railway bridge was out of action for the rest of the war and the cranes of the Mosel Harbour were put out of action by our group.
Our attack on the 30th December, 1944 was directed at the area of the Kalk‐Nord railways yards, near Cologne. There was heavy cloud cover over the target and we could not observe the effect of our bombing, but later reports indicated that two ammunition trains had blown up, and that we had badly damaged the yards, two railway stations and the nearby Autobahn. The cumulative effect of these raids, and many of those that followed, was to severely hinder the German’s ability to move troops and critical supplies to the battlefront.
Between 2nd and 22nd January, 1945 we flew another six missions (Ops V to Ops X) dropping our bombs on Ludwigshafen, where we destroyed the IG Farben chemical works (this company produced the gas used in the Nazi extermination camps); Hanau where the wind scattered our bombs over a wide area of the city; Saarbruken railway yards which were hit accurately; Dulmen Luftwaffe fuel storage depot, where our bombs landed in open fields; the city of Magdeburg, an area target; and Gelsenkirchen where residential and industrial zones were targeted.
Our crew didn’t fly on the 5th January, but the Squadron did attack Hannover and had a rough night, losing three aircraft at the cost of seventeen men killed and six taken prisoner. I believe that at least one of our squadron aircraft was shot down by a night fighter piloted by Hauptman Georg‐Hermann Greiner, who shot down a total of four of our bombers in only ten minutes that night, the other three being Lancasters. Greiner was a Luftwaffe Ace, who shot down a total of 51 allied aircraft during the war. At the time we didn’t know much at all about the identities of the enemy pilots, but later I was able to learn that several hardy and highly skilled German night fighter aces continued to engage us right up to the end of the war and some of the top enemy pilots survived the war.
On the Magdeburg run, on 16th January, our compasses stopped working, and we had to navigate without them (quite a challenge) but we got home in one piece. We suffered heavy losses during this attack, which also destroyed 40% of that city. Altogether, 17 Halifax aircraft were lost, representing 5.3% of our attacking force. Halifax LW179DY‐Y from our own Squadron, and flown by Squadron Leader Jarand, was shot down over Germany on this mission with all 8 crewmen killed, bringing the total number of men killed in 102 Squadron to 29 in just 4 weeks. Nevertheless, although we didn’t know it then, we were through the worst. In the last months of the war our squadron lost only another 5 aircraft. Other squadrons were less fortunate and continued to lose men and aircraft right up to the end.
The effect of our bombs on the target was devastating, particularly when large cities were struck. Later in the war when daylight raids were more frequent, I had the chance to observe some of these targets from the air, and as the photographs show, there was almost nothing left standing in most German city centres.
On 29th January 1945 we headed for Stuttgart on Ops XI. This time our bomb load ‘hung up’, meaning that the bombs wouldn’t release and we had to release them manually. This was a difficult business at twenty thousand feet, the crew labouring over the high explosive cargo with the bomb doors open and the screaming dark rushing by beneath their feet. We finally got the bombs away and landed at Tangmere. A combination of cloud, dummy target indicator rockets set off by the Germans, hilly terrain and dummy target fires, also started by the enemy meant that our bombing was very scattered and in this final RAF raid against this city, and casualties on the ground were relatively light on that night.
I continued to feel as though a great weight had been lifted off me each time the bombs were released. We still had flak and fighters to face, but at least we were rid of all the explosives we had been carrying. There was a collective sigh of relief, because if we had been hit with the explosives still on board – oh Christ! A hit in those circumstances means that there is a chance that the whole aircraft would simply blow up before we even hit the ground. Even if we did hit the ground in one piece, we would certainly explode.
Only a third of my way through the tour, I was already a veteran. Our squadron had already lost 8 aircraft out of a full strength of 24 since I joined. Of course, each loss was replaced as it occurred, so we were generally at full strength. And so the sequence repeated itself, night after night. Sitting in the briefing room with my fellow navigators, listening to details of the weather and the target, noting the details of flak positions on my charts and trying not to think about enemy fire. Walking to the aircraft in the evening twilight with the rest of the crew, clambering aboard through a narrow hatch
and sitting at my navigation table, listening to the nervous chatter on the intercom. The aircraft engines starting, belching that black smoke, their whine rising to a roar, the aircraft lumbering and jolting down the runway, taking me with it regardless, straining to lift itself off the ground, clawing at the cold air and climbing up into the night sky. The long, bumpy flight over dark countryside and black waters, turning this way and that. The long hours of waiting and then the enemy night fighters coming out of nowhere at high speed, guns firing all around, other aircraft burning as they fall, their crews dying, beyond any help I could offer. Then the flak and searchlights over the target, the aircraft leaping upwards as the bombs fall away, the steep dive to low‐level flight, and skimming over the trees and the black water back to base, for hot tea and eggs and bacon, and sleep, and trying not to think about the comrades who would never come home again.
On 2nd February, our bombing was again frustrated by cloud and it is reported that we did not hit the oil refinery we were trying to get at. We then lost an engine due to enemy fire over Wanne Eickel, and once more we flew home on three engines. There was the usual crack of flak going off around us, and then we heard a sudden loud bang and the aircraft was shaken violently. Our starboard outer engine died immediately and we lost some altitude before the pilot was able to level the aircraft. A mission over Bonn followed, and then we had a tough time with the flak over Goch on Op XIV and at Wesel, where cloud forced us to abort the attack, on Op XV.
The anti‐aircraft fire was always extremely unpleasant, but we soon learned that we just had to live with it. On most missions, our commanders would attempt to route us around known enemy flak concentrations so that our route through the air to the target would depend on the position of the gunners on the ground. But many of those guns were mobile and the Germans would switch locations so that at least some of their fire simply couldn’t be escaped. In those circumstances you had to fly on through the shell bursts and hope for the best. Of course, there was always plenty of flak
surrounding the target. We knew that wherever the target was, it was going to be loaded with flak, and once we got there we just had to say, well, ‘Here goes!’
The Goch raid comprised 464 aircraft and was intended to prepare the way for the attack of the British army across the German frontier near the Reichswald; the Germans had included the towns of Goch and Kleve in their strong defences there. Our Master Bomber ordered us to come in below the cloud with the rest of the Main Force and as the estimated cloud base was only 5,000ft the attack was very accurate at first. However, the raid was stopped after 155 aircraft had bombed, because smoke was causing control of the raid to become impossible. We didn’t bomb for this reason, but our course took use through the smoke and directly over the target, nevertheless.
Considerable damage was caused in Goch but I read later that most of the inhabitants had probably left the town. Kleve was also attacked, and the photograph of that town below shows the effect. One of our aircraft was lost during this attack, and although several of the crew parachuted to safety and returned to Pocklington, the pilot didn’t get out in time and he burned to death in the crash.
On the 21st, while hitting the city of Worms, of which 39% was destroyed, we had an extended tangle with German fighters. Several of these infiltrated our formation and made good their attacks and 25 bombers were shot down over various parts of Germany that night, 8 of them from our mission. Hauptmann Greiner was active again, shooting down two of our aircraft. Flying with him that night were three more German aces; Gunther Bahr, Heinz Schnaufer and Heinz Rökker who between them accounted for 24 of the 25 bombers downed. So you see, some of these enemy pilots were coming up at us and shooting down 6 or 7 bombers each in one night, single handed. You can read about the fellows I named here in the Appendix.
I judge that the stress put on a German fighter pilot must have been much greater than that put on the crew of one of our bombers, simply because we had more eyes watching the night sky around us. We were flying in such massive formations that, as
long as we stayed on course and on schedule, the odds of a fighter targeting our plane specifically were relatively low. At the same time, as we were flying a big, heavy bomber, we would never go off chasing the enemy.
So, if he chooses to attack the main bomber stream, the fighter pilot finds that he’s operating at a major disadvantage. If he does come close (and many did) and picks a target, all the nearby aircraft would swing their guns towards the single fighter and he would find himself facing very heavy fire. It took great courage on the enemy’s part. At the same time, all of our gunners, excluding the ones in the aircraft actually being attacked, would know that they were in no immediate danger and they could operate without that pressure. They knew that they had a chance to get the fighter while it hadn’t a hope in hell of hitting them.
What this meant was that, nine times out of ten, the fighters would go after the stragglers and ‘strays’ – aircraft that had dropped out of formation due to damage or poor navigation. Imagine, if you can, a huge, dense stream of aircraft, with the odd wayward fellow off to one side, below, or lagging behind. These were the ones who would most likely be picked off by the night fighters, who would come in like sharks, nibbling at the edge of the ‘fish’ in the bomber stream.
The majority of the German night fighters were actually modified fighter‐bomber and light bomber aircraft that were no longer effective in daylight. These twin‐engine planes had been fitted with radar and extra armaments to enable them to find and destroy allied bombers in the dark. The crews were specialists who flew only at night, and they belonged to elite ‘Nachtjagd’ or night fighter units.
Most of those enemy fighter pilots would attack us from behind and below, because that was our blind spot. The enemy aircraft often had special gun mountings, fitted to point slightly upwards to support this direction of attack, in a configuration the Germans called ‘Schräge Musik’. This meant that the Tail Gunner was critical to our defence and he had to be constantly alert. Many tail gunners were killed during the war
and it wasn’t unknown for the whole tail gun assembly to be shot off, with the gunner in it. That was a hard way to go and there was no way to bail out of a tail gun position as it spun to earth. As soon as either of the gunners saw an enemy fighter coming in they would call out, and the whole crew would know that we were under attack.
We rarely had prolonged engagements with the enemy fighter pilots. They would come in fast and try and get in close, but our gunners were very good and the enemy would generally be chased off after one or two passes, because for obvious reasons they were not for pressing forward when our fire was accurate. Navigation was an important factor in this. If you could stay on course you would have the company of many other aircraft with all the tail gunners and top gunners in your vicinity firing simultaneously. The enemy didn’t approve of that. You needed steady nerves and lightening reflexes to survive however, and the wayward paid a heavy price.
Below is one of the claim forms the enemy would fill out if they shot you down, so that their victory would be recorded against their name. I am happy to say that I was never referred to on any of these!
The month of February 1945 came to a close with attacks on the huge Krupps armaments works at Essen where the Germans recorded that we were very accurate, dropping 300 high explosive and 11,000 incendiaries on the target. We also made an attack on the synthetic oil plant at Kamen. In the final week of the month we were upgraded to the Halifax VI bomber, which had better engines and a longer range, and on the 25th we flew a cross country to familiarise ourselves with this aircraft.
We returned to Cologne for the third time on Ops XIX on 2nd March 1945. That city really took a hammering from us and others during this period, and the damage was very extensive, as the picture shows. There really was almost nothing left in the centre of most of these German cities. Four days after this raid, American troops captured what remained of Cologne.
Another trip to Kamen the following night saw us being hit by intruders once again, this time on the return leg as we crossed the coast of England. The enemy had adopted a new tactic that involved attacking our forces as we were preparing to land, and on this first occasion it caught us completely by surprise. Once again we had been forced to fly home on three engines owing to a technical problem. I don’t know if Greiner was in the air near us, but Luftwaffe records show that he shot down three more Lancaster bombers on that night. This time, however, we had hit the synthetic oil plant without suffering any losses in our squadron, and that plant never went back into production after that attack.
In the week that followed we struck Chemnitz and dropped mines in Flemsberg Fjord. The Chemnitz raid required us to takeoff in icy conditions, and one squadron lost several aircraft due to mid‐air collisions.
One of my 102 Squadron pilots, Flight Lieutenant Jim Weaver, wrote this account of a raid on Stuttgart in July 1944, which gives a good idea of what the experience was like for most of us.
“It was a nice run up to the target with instructions from the Master Bomber, then ‘Bomb doors open’, ‘Left, left’, ‘Right, right’, ‘Steady’, ‘Bombs gone!’ The Halifax jumped up, relieved of its burden and now there was the long 25 seconds while the photo was taken and then ‘Bomb doors closed’. This whole procedure was not long in time but seemed to be the most intense part of the trip, especially over the most heavily defended targets.
“Leaving Stuttgart, it gradually became quieter, but exceptionally dark when suddenly, all hell broke loose. Tracers and cannon shells were tearing into the tail assembly and port wing. Almost instantaneously, I reacted with a dive to starboard, away from the tracers as, obviously, the fighter was astern. I shouted to the rear gunner ‘Paul – get that guy!’ It was a Junkers 88 astern, below and to starboard. The defensive
action we took brought him up in full view of the rear gunner who shot him down, seeing it break up with a fire and explosion around one of its engines.”
I was lucky as I was too busy to be frightened. But there were others who weren’t busy enough! I wouldn't have wanted to be sitting down there all alone in the tail of the aircraft as a tail gunner, waiting for a night fighter to come in and take pot shots at me. Nor would I want to have been a pilot, forced to hold the aircraft straight and level while flying into flak, able to see everything that was coming up at me. With all that twisting and turning and with the need to be accurate at all times I was simply too busy to worry. As I told you before we never seemed to fly in the same direction for more than 50 miles. Every five minutes we would turn left or turn right, descend or ascend in order to make sure that the enemy couldn't train their guns on us.
It was the same on every mission and I was always just three or four minutes from the next turn, working like crazy to get everything ready. Some of the other crewmembers really had nothing to do, unless the fighters came in to attack us. They were the men who suffered, you see, because they were just sitting there waiting, and that is a hell of a lot of pressure to put on anybody. We navigators were too busy to think about what could happen, and fortunate to have this responsibility.
We hit the shipyards in Hamburg on the 8th March, and then on the 11th we took part in the last ‘thousand bomber raid’ on Essen. Essen was a major target in the heart of Germany’s industrial centre, the Ruhr, and large raids had headed this way repeatedly. RAF reports said later that 1,079 aircraft of all bomber groups attacked Essen this night. This was the largest number of aircraft sent to a target so far in the war. Three Lancasters were lost but 4,661 tons of bombs were dropped through complete cloud cover. The reports stated that the attack was accurate and that this great blow virtually paralysed Essen until the American troops entered the city some time later. This was the last RAF raid on Essen, which had been attacked many times. Most of the city was now in ruins. 7,000 people had died in the air raids and the pre‐war
population of 648,000 had fallen to 310,000 by the end of April 1945; the rest had left for quieter places in Germany.
Wuppertal, Bottrop and Witten were attacked by us between the 13th and 19th March. The flak over Bottrop on 15th March was very bad and one Halifax was shot down. The Witten raid was an area attack and it destroyed 129 acres of the city, or 62%, including both industrial and residential districts.
We then had two dream missions, with almost no enemy action being observed, over Dulmen and Osnabruck at the end of March, although we lost an engine due to technical problems on the 25th and had to return from Osnabruck on three. I was getting used to that by this time. These were both area attacks, and we could see large fires and lots of dust and smoke as we flew away from the target.
With only four Ops to go to complete my tour, and counting down, we returned to Hamburg for the last time on 8th April, 1945 to attack the shipyards. Altogether, 3 Halifaxes and 3 Lancasters were shot down that night, and this also turned out to be the final RAF raid on the city. The following night we dropped more mines into the Flemsburg Fjord.
On 13th April we bombed Nuremburg, the future site of the war crimes trials. This city had a special meaning for me as a black person. It was here that the huge Nazi rallies were held, and here that the German race laws were created in the 1930s. I could recall hearing mention of this place many times in my late teens and early twenties. To be flying in one of the aircraft assigned to bomb the city provided a reminder that the journey I had taken and the risks I had shared were in a just and important cause.
Finally, on 18th April, 1945 we flew our last mission of the war, Op XXXIII, thirty three operational flights being the compulsory allotment. On this final mission we attacked a fortified island near Heligoland called Wangerooge, and that was a hell of a
‘prang’, I can tell you. This place was armed and defended like no other place in the world, but we really gave them a hammering, although 3 Halifaxes were also lost.
I don't recall exactly how many aircraft were committed for this attack, I think it was a hundred, but I can tell you it was a large force because of the heavy fortifications on that island, which included thick reinforced concrete bunkers and many antiaircraft batteries. It was one hell of a blast and the attack was made in daylight. We carried very heavy bombs specially designed to pierce the thick ceilings of the enemy bunkers, and there were also fighter‐bomber aircraft involved, smaller than the heavy bombers, that carried rockets to attack and suppress the antiaircraft positions.
On that final raid, after we had dropped the bombs, we did something that was totally wrong; for the first and only time we went around and circled the target. We knew that there was nothing left down there to touch us. In fact there wasn’t a single gun firing, just lots and lots of smoke. We could see explosions as well from bombs being dropped by aircraft that had flown in behind us and secondary explosions caused by munitions or fuel stored on the ground being hit. Following our assault two more squadrons went into that target and essentially wiped it out militarily ‐ there was just nothing left.
Of course you know by now that Heligoland was just one small military target while many of our missions were directed at industrial targets and large cities; this was what they called ‘total war’. It had been declared as such by Hitler and we were now paying him back.
The massive quantities of bombs that we carried and dropped on a target were bound to cause large numbers of casualties on the ground. You would try your hardest to navigate accurately and to bomb with precision but you can never be right on target every time. You think you have the right wind direction, you think you have the right wind speed, and that there won’t be any deviation between the wind at your height and the wind nearer the ground, but at the end of the day if you're going to drop that kind of
weaponry from that sort of height you know that you're really just going to wipe out whatever is on the ground below you. Remember, we were bombing from 30,000 feet which meant that there were several miles of air beneath us, with winds blowing this way and that, and we were unable to observe or measure any of those deviations.
On many occasions we were confident that we had the aircraft perfectly aligned, just as it should be; the bomb aimer had his sights on the target, all his calculations had been completed and the aircraft was ready for a perfect bomb run, but when he released the bombs they just didn’t fall where he intended because of a wind shear somewhere beneath us. The wind would just take the bombs off target and they would land some distance away, often on civilian areas that were not being targeted. You would do your best, but there were just too many factors to take into account, many of them out of your control. That’s the nature of the beast. You tried your best.
So, that was that. Thirty three operational missions, all of them over Germany at the climax of the air war, with just over 197 operational hours and 25 non‐operational hours, for a total of 223 hours aloft with no casualties amongst our crew.
Sadly, many of our comrades were not as fortunate. In the course of the war 102 Squadron had the third heaviest losses in Bomber Command. We lost over 1,000 men out of a Bomber Command total loss of 55,000, suffered the heaviest losses in Number 4 Group (shared with 78 Squadron) and had the highest percentage losses in the Group. As I explained earlier, these heavy casualties continued almost to the end of the war.
It’s also important to bear in mind the fact that, although we were only four or five months away from the end of the war in Europe, 46% of the total tonnage of bombs dropped by Bomber Command during the entire war was dropped between September 1944 and May 1945. It’s very sad, but with a strength of 120 or so aircrew on the Squadron more than a third (47) had been killed during the last six months of the war, 2 were missing and 18 had been taken prisoner.
The courage of my comrades is reflected in the fact that a total of 74 Distinguished Flying Medals (DFM) and the Distinguished Flying Crosses (DFC) were awarded to squadron members between 1939 and 1945, along with one CGM. I was one of the recipients of the DFC, awarded for my service with 102 Squadron, although it was not presented until after the war had ended and I had transferred to another unit. I also received the 1939 to 1945 Medal, the France/Germany Cross, the Defence Medal and the War Medal. I don’t know specifically why they gave me the DFC. They kept that secret from me.
Our commitment was limited to those thirty‐three operational missions. A few fellows got really worked up about the length of it, affected by the stress of constant flying and exposure to danger. In those cases the RAF would quickly pull them off flying duty and put somebody else into the crew. The affected person would be given a rest and in most cases he would eventually be put back on duty once he had recovered. There was a pretty modern attitude towards that kind of thing, even in those days, and we felt that we were fairly treated.
My operational tour ended before the end of the war. After I finished my tour it was time to go and get drunk! It was a big relief to come through that alive, yet I am sure that if the war had continued I would have signed up for another tour of duty straightaway. I can't really explain why, it's just something to do with the way I felt at the time, that we were doing the right thing, that it was important.
I know there were people who would go up for their first flight and then decide that they weren't ready for this at all, that they were not going back. I have to admit that I don't think that what we did was something that most people would do in the same circumstances. Without meaning to sound conceited, I believe that the process of selection and the intensive period of training brought a special group of people to the top of the pile.
Ralph Pearson, our pilot, one air gunner and I all volunteered to join the Pathfinder Force. The Pathfinders were an elite force trained to arrive at the target first and to drop flares and incendiaries to mark it for the main force bombers. Our applications were approved and we were posted to the Pathfinder training school to train on the Lancaster bomber. However, after about two weeks of this familiarisation the war in Europe came to a close as the Germans surrendered.
Well, with that our pilot Pearson just disappeared; in fact I tried to contact him before he left, but he was going straight back to Canada as the Canadians were being taken home very quickly by their authorities. Pearson was more or less engaged to a girl up in York, so he rushed off to join her about three days before the actual end of the conflict, while I was stuck at the training centre cooling my heels.
As soon as the fighting had ended I hopped on the first train to York, but I couldn't find Pearson. I visited everybody I knew trying to get some information about his whereabouts but I wasn’t able to contact him. Eventually I gave up and, as I couldn't get a room in a hotel anywhere, what with everyone returning from overseas, I ended up spending the whole night sitting in the railway station. Thank God it wasn't too cold. The next day I caught the first train back to my base and I never saw Pearson or heard from him again. He left so quickly, you see that I never got his address.
Chapter 5: My World Tour
I actually stayed with the RAF until 1963. I transferred to Transport Command and I even ran for the RAF track team, my events being the two‐twenty and four‐forty. I was formally entitled to wear the RAF Athletics Blazer, something that required written approval. At the end of my career I was serving as the Chief Navigation Officer for 216 Squadron, which operated the De Havilland Comet, a brand‐new jet aircraft suited to carrying passengers. The Comet was really the first genuine passenger jet.
In 1959 or 1960 I flew out to Vancouver, where Ralph Pearson had lived before the war, as a navigator in the Comet. While there I wrote several letters to various addresses in an attempt to contact Ralph but I still couldn't find him in spite of sending letters here, there and everywhere. I don’t know if he eventually married that girl from Yorkshire.
I did stay in touch with Laurie Wilder, our Flight Engineer. He was posted to the Middle East for a time, but when he came back he took ill and he died a few years ago. Of the others in my crew, I met only one after the war. I was walking along a street in London and I heard someone walking behind me. I knew it was a policeman but I didn't worry about that as I knew they were just walking past me. Suddenly, one of these policemen turned around to face me and said, ‘Excuse me, sir’. I thought he was going to arrest me, but as it turned out it was Morris, one of the mid‐upper gunners, who had now joined the police force. I exclaimed, ‘My God!’ I had a shock you know, as I just heard this uniformed gentleman say ‘Excuse me, sir’ and when you hear that from a policeman you know that the next words coming are, ‘You are wanted for questioning down at the Station’!
I used to work on the de‐mob ships coming back to Jamaica with Jamaican servicemen from the UK. I was on duty, in my uniform, and it felt good to walk the streets of Kingston and to meet up with members of the family, dressed as a flyer returned from the war. On the first trip, I took sixty days leave and went home to see my family for the first time in four years. I was proud of what we had done, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. I also believe that people really looked up to us and appreciated our efforts.
I did about three de‐mob trips out here, and we actually had some serious trouble on a few occasions because of the long drawn out demobilisation process for Jamaican servicemen, and the rough conditions they were forced to endure. Men from other nations appeared to have been given priority treatment when it came to repatriation, and our men felt that they had been badly treated.
I was down in Middle East in November 1945 and for some unearthly reason heavy rain started to fall. In addition, at this time in England they had one whole month of fog, and we were supposed to fly via Italy to pick up some passengers and carry them home to the UK. When we were ready to leave Italy the controllers told us, ‘Well you can’t move because you can’t get in; you can’t get into any airfield in England’. After sitting there for two full weeks, we were told to fly over to Naples. We then spent about two weeks flying over to the heel of Italy, and bringing people over to Naples to catch a ship home from there.
We finally got back to England in December 1945, after almost a month of trying. They must have had a hell of a lot of fog there. We left Naples with about twenty‐five soldiers on board, which was the standard load, and believe it or not, we got as far as the Channel and then we had to go all the way back to Marseilles, as we still couldn’t fly in.
Finally, the following morning, with the wind against us, we were able to get into our UK base and drop off our passengers. This was a Saturday with Christmas right around the corner. As I climbed down from the aircraft I saw three or four staff cars and a gaggle of senior officers standing there waiting for us. I said to myself, ‘What the hell did we do wrong?’ That’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see a gathering like that ‐ something must be wrong! Well, they stepped away from the cars, and I saw the Wing Commander at the head of the group. He said ‘John Blair come here!’ So I went over, trying to work out what kind of trouble I was in when he handed me something and said, ‘This is yours! You’ve been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross! Well done!’ And I said, ‘For what?’
There were no less than three Squadron Leaders standing there with the Wing Commander, and one of them said, ‘What the hell is this? You won a DFC and you didn’t say anything to anybody! But here you are; you have been awarded the DFC for the work done during your tour with the bombers in 102 Squadron.’ There was no
particular mission or event that caused them to give me that award, just my overall performance during the whole tour.
So that was it – I was surprised, I can tell you. There was a citation and a short letter from the King enclosed with the medal, but I have lost those unfortunately. All I can say is that I did the best job as a Navigator that I could have ever done. Well, we came through thirty‐three missions and many, many crews did not.
Of course, that night after they gave me the medal was a terrible night! From whisky to beer to whisky again! Beer by the barrel‐full and whiskey by the bottle! That was after suffering in Italy for a whole month, and since I had even had to go and buy new shirts down there, money was tight. I really couldn’t afford that medal.
With Transport Command I went all around the world, flying as a Navigator in Hastings aircraft and also the Comet. I met my future wife Margaret on an aircraft flying into Hong Kong. I was navigating and she was idling! She was the Senior Flight Sister but with nothing to do as there were no patients going outbound, although we would take patients on the journey back, mostly army personnel. That aircraft was actually a hospital ward with stretcher patients and seated patients. The Sisters were kept busy when they had casualties to attend to, but fortunately for me we were empty on that flight.
Later, I was based out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean dropping off cargo destined for Christmas Island in the period leading up to the British nuclear tests. I went fishing before the tests and caught a few really big ones.
In 1995 I was invited to represent Jamaica at the 50th Anniversary celebrations of the end of the war, held in London. Several of us represented Jamaica, including my friend John Ebanks, who had been a Navigator/Bomb Aimer in a Mosquito Squadron. Well, that was quite something. It was very well attended indeed and I had never before seen the streets of London with so many people on them. We marched from Greenwich up to big, old Buckingham Palace. On both sides of the street all the way to
the Palace, people must have been standing more than twenty deep. It felt as though there were millions of people there on that day.
While we were fighting we never thought about defending the Empire or anything along those lines. We just knew deep down inside that we were all in this together and that what was taking place around our world had to be stopped. That was a war that had to be fought; there are no two ways about that. A lot of people have never thought about what would have happened to them here in Jamaica if the Germans had won, but we certainly would have returned to slavery. If a youngster today should ever suggest that we had no business going to fight a ‘white man’s war’ I would just throw my foot at him where it hurt him the most!
EPILOGUE
Flight Lieutenant John J Blair, DFC, 1919 to 2004
Remembrance for
Flight Lieutenant John Jellico Blair, DFC 1919 – 2004
Read at his funeral service by Mark Johnson, nephew
What motives led John Blair to tread the path he did and what must he have felt as he travelled from the dusty plains of southern St Elizabeth, Jamaica, to the air over Germany in 1944; from educator to Royal Air Force navigator, to lawyer and air accident investigator; from poor rural roots to a Distinguished Flying Cross and a career as one of the first West Indians to serve in the officer’s ranks of His Majesty’s Forces?
Uncle John went to school in Pedro Plains, to be taught by his elder sister Jemima; what a fate that must be, to be taught by one’s sister! There was a single class for children of all ages and he was actually told to start school two years early. When the English schools inspector came to visit, Aunt Jem would push him out of the one‐room school by the back door, so that she wouldn’t get into trouble.
As a child, John was moved around between his home, his brother Stanley’s teacher’s cottage in St Ann and his sister Clarissa’s house in St Mary. In the latter, John used to watch his brother‐in‐law, Mr E.B. Johnson, leading the local scout troop. The troop was smartly dressed, with uniforms and scarves, just like their English counterparts, but they were all barefoot! None of them could afford shoes for day‐to‐day use.
In the late 1930s, John left St Elizabeth to study at the Mico Teachers Training College, and he graduated as a teacher in elementary education after the 2nd World War had already started and in the words of Uncle John’s lifelong friend and RAF comrade, John Ebanks, ‘Hitler was a bully who had to be stopped’. John Blair decided that he would be one of those who would do the stopping.
So this reserved, 23 year‐old school teacher from the countryside volunteered to join the Royal Air Force, and in October 1942 he was put on a ship in Kingston harbour along with twenty other Jamaican volunteers and sent to Canada for training, by way of Belize, New Orleans and New York. This was a man who had never held a gun, never before left Jamaica, and never once flown in an aeroplane.
That experience on board the American ship stayed with Uncle John, and he found it both ironic and amusing. When his group went on board, they were told to go below. As they arrived on the first deck they found empty bunks waiting for them, so they started to unpack. However, an officer soon appeared and told them that their proper place was two decks further down; in the hold! And that’s where they travelled all the way to New Orleans, via Belize!
John trained in Canada as a Navigator in bomber aircraft, and he said it was “Cold like the Devil!” As the navigator, John Blair was responsible for telling the pilot how to get to the target and how to get home again after the bombs had been dropped. This was done mostly at night and with very limited technical assistance, just maps, compasses, a radio signal for taking bearings, star sightings and a regular look out of the window at the ground below, when you could see it. No radar. No computers. And no lights!
And while doing all this, with hundreds of other aircraft all around them in the night sky, the bombers were under attack by enemy fighters and anti‐aircraft fire. Understand this – Uncle John’s squadron (102 Ceylon Squadron) possessed 16 Halifax bombers, each with a crew of 7 men taken from many nations. During the first 3 weeks of his service with the Squadron, 8 of those 16 planes had been shot down over Germany; that’s 50% of his squadron in less than a month, with most of the crews being killed. John Blair would fly for a total of 5 months, and fly 33 bombing missions in that period.
Imagine, if you can, just a few moments in this long period of strain and tension; John Blair sitting in the briefing room with his fellow navigators, listening to details of the weather and the target, noting the enemy flak positions on his charts and trying not to
think about the effect of their fire; John walking to the aircraft in the evening twilight with his crew, clambering aboard through a narrow hatch and sitting at his navigation table, listening to the chatter on the intercom. The aircraft engines starting, belching black smoke, their whine rising to a roar, the aircraft lumbering and jolting down the runway, taking him with it regardless, straining to lift itself off the ground, clawing at the cold air and climbing into the night. Imagine a long, bumpy flight over dark countryside and black waters, turning this way and that, long hours of waiting and then the enemy night fighters coming out of nowhere at high speed, guns firing all around, other aircraft burning as they fall, their crews dying, beyond any help he could offer. Now picture the flak and searchlights over the target, the aircraft leaping upwards as the bombs fall away leaving it so much lighter, the steep dive to low‐level flight and then skimming over the trees and the water back to base, for hot tea and eggs and bacon, and sleep, and trying not to think about the comrades who would never come home again, or the fact that it would all need to be over again the following night, and the next, and the night after that.
That is what this man did.
He admitted that this was a hard, hard thing to do; there was fear and danger, and there was discomfort. Thousands of airmen died on both sides, and his Squadron suffered the second highest losses of any RAF squadron during the entire Second World War. The enemy was expert and resolute and many of the German pilots who attacked John’s squadron were combat aces with years of experience.
For example, Hauptman Georg Hermann Greiner, who downed an aircraft from 102 on 5th January 1945 was a Luftwaffe Ace, who shot down a total of 51 allied aircraft during the war. Major Heinz‐Wolfgang Schnaufer, who attacked the squadron on 21st February 1945 bringing two planes down, shot down a total of 121 allied planes during his career. In fact, on that night Schnaufer, Greiner and two other German pilots accounted for a total of 25 allied bombers in less than 30 minutes.
So this was serious business; it was life and death, and more often death than life for the allied aircrews.
What did John Blair do when he had completed this tour? Well, he volunteered for a second tour with the elite Pathfinder Squadron, and he was accepted. He also went out and got drunk with his crew, and I wonder if he didn’t get drunk first and volunteer afterwards! For his service with 102 Squadron Flight Lieutenant John Jellico Blair was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, the 1939 to 1945 Medal, the France/Germany Cross, the Defence Medal and the War Medal.
At the end of the war in Europe, Uncle John stayed in the RAF and transferred to Transport Command, flying all over the world. It was on one such flight to the Far East that he met his future wife Margaret. She was the Senior Flight Sister on board and they were on their way to pick up British casualties and ferry them home. As Uncle John put it, ‘I was working and she was idling!’
He also flew as a navigator in the Comet aircraft, the first passenger jet, and he remained in the RAF until 1963, a total of 21 years. John and Margaret Blair had two children, John Julian and Sarah, both of whom now live in the UK but who are here with us today. The family returned to Jamaica in the 1970s, and John Blair practiced law, worked as Deputy Director of Civil Aviation and tried his hand at farming.
Severe illness struck Uncle John in the late 1990’s. Throughout his long illness his wife Margaret and their children demonstrated the incredible devotion and strength that John himself had displayed throughout his life. How should we remember that life? In keeping with his own style, I propose just a few simple words; devotion to duty, to his country and to his people; love for his wife and for his children; compassion and humility; respect for others and concern for all mankind; self‐sacrifice. Let us remember him thus, let us thank him and his comrades for risking their lives to secure our freedom, and let us hope that each of us can be just one tenth the human being that was John Jellico Blair.
Appendix A
Transcript of an Interview with John Ebanks July 1997
I was a very religious young man and even now I can't understand my motivation for going to fight in the services. In 1940 I was the youngest lay preacher in the Anglican Church in Jamaica. But I was just annoyed when I listened to the news and heard how Hitler was just bulldozing his way through those little countries like Poland and Czechoslovakia. I was hurt ‐ he was just a dammed bully using his strength to dominate those people, and that triggered my decision.
I had five brothers and six sisters and came from a very traditional family background but I didn't tell my parents what I was planning to do until I had already been accepted by the RAF. I waited till the last minute to tell them.
My father was a teacher from St Elizabeth in Jamaica. In fact, there's a story in the family that states that by rights we should be in the owners of the whole of Treasure Beach where my good friend John Blair comes from. There were two brothers from Scotland call Eubanks (Ebanks is a corruption) who decided to leave their father’s carpet making business and follow in the footsteps of Columbus. Well they set sail and they reached as far as the Cayman Islands, where one of them settled. The second brother continued but his ship ran into a storm and they were shipwrecked on the South West coast of Jamaica at what is now called Treasure Beach. And so that's how the family came to Jamaica, and up to 40 years ago anywhere you heard the name Ebanks you could be certain that you were talking to someone who hailed from St Elizabeth. In 1954 there were only two Ebanks in the telephone directory and now there are about 30.
In 1939 I was a teacher. One day I was sitting with the headmistress listening to the radio when suddenly Churchill came on and we heard that amazing speech, “We will
fight them on the beaches”. I was very moved. The Germans were just rampaging across Europe, and these people were going to stop them.
So the following day I made an application to the RAF. That was in 1940 but I didn't hear from them until the middle of 1941 when they told me to report to Kingston for medical and mental tests. Incidentally the educational tests we got out here were much tougher than the ones we received when we arrived in England. We didn't actually join up here in Jamaica. There was a committee here and they were very strict because at that time all the fellows who applied were applying for aircrew duties ‐ no one was applying for anything else. My first choice was to be a pilot but I received a 100% score in the mathematical aspects of the test and apparently the English school system wasn't turning out as many good mathematicians as were required. So I was asked to become a navigator, given my skill at math. I didn't mind because I already knew that this was a critical job and that many aircraft were lost not because of enemy fire, but due to errors in navigation. It was common to hear of planes going off course and flying into mountains or heading far out to sea never to return.
After a few months in England I was posted to Canada for training. We had a good time in Canada. There was no blackout, there was plenty to eat and the girls were very nice, but that didn't interest me! What disturbed me was the comment that people trained in Canada as navigators were very poor in their performance operationally, because there was no blackout and so navigation was easy compared to Europe.
When I joined my squadron I was the only non‐commissioned officer on the station so I was stuck in a great big, big building all by myself. Eventually I was transferred to a place named Oakington.
I recall that during our bomb aiming training, on my first flight with live ordinance, I believed I had dropped the bomb on the target, but as we were returning to base we realised that the aircraft wasn’t handling properly and indeed the bomb was still attached! I said to my pilot, ‘I don't believe the bomb is gone!’ Now at this stage we
were at 30,000 feet and I said let's go down another 10,000 feet because I suspected that ice was the cause of the problem. When we had descended to 20,000 feet I pressed the button again and the aircraft jumped up about 4000 feet as the bomb left us. After that experience we never had any doubts as to whether or not the bomb had gone.
All in all I flew 50 sorties during the war. I think my most dangerous moment was over Hamburg. We lost one of our engines hit by flak, the starboard engine as I recall, and that occurred at 25,000 feet. Then suddenly the second engine packed up apparently because of an airlock. So we were just gliding with no engines at all. By now we were over the North Sea and the pilot told me to prepare to bail out. I said ‘Master, you can bail out but I not bailing out’. This was one time I was not obeying any instructions, because when you looked down below you know it was as black as pitch, it being two o'clock in the morning. No way was I going to bail out at night in the winter over the North Sea ‐ I would prefer to die in my plane.
When we got to 5000 feet the blockage cleared up and engine started and we were able to land on an emergency strip on the east coast of England. You see no matter how bad things get there is always a chance something will happen and you will scrape through. I just wasn't prepared to bail out because you had no chance of surviving you would freeze to death in two minutes in the water.
I also recall another occasion when we lost an engine and had to turn back to the UK. Now, each squadron leaving the UK had a designated re‐entry point at which you could fly back in to the UK. As long as you flew on the correct course you were expected, but if you were tempted to return on another route there was always a chance that the gunners on the ground will treat you as an enemy aircraft. As we hit the coast on this flight the English antiaircraft batteries, or ‘ack‐ack’, opened fire on us. But fortunately we always carried a Verey pistol with the flare of the day, a specific colour that everyone knew, and as soon as I fired that thing the anti‐aircraft firing stopped as though by magic.
I remember that I flew as part of a force of 30 mosquitoes to mark the target at Cologne for one of the thousand bomber raids. Well I'll just let you imagine what happens when 30 aircraft attack a target that’s defended by 600 guns. And yet, as we left the area weaving and turning violently to avoid the enemy fire I saw one aircraft circling the target, taking a look. It turned out to be one of the squadron commanders. Of course, he was shot down and killed.
When I got back to Jamaica I didn't find the adjustment difficult, but I had a hell of a time getting a job. At every interview I was told that I had a brilliant war record and that they had no place for someone like me.
I was at a gathering recently when a fellow came up to me and said “Oh! So you are one of those who went to fight for King and country.” I got very angry and I told him in no uncertain manner that I did not go to fight for King and country, I went to fight for myself. I went to fight for freedom, for Jamaica, and for all the little countries of the world that would otherwise be controlled by bullies.
John Ebanks 1997
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 Story of Flight Lieutenant John J Blair, DFC
102 (Ceylon) Squadron and 216 Squadron
Description
An account of the resource
A 52 page document detailing the history of John Blair's RAF service from 1942 to 1963, and his childhood in Jamaica. Introductory note says it was based on a taped interview with John Blair by his nephew in 1997.
John was born in 1919 to a poor but educated family. He was the youngest of eight children. At the age of 17 he started training as a teacher but war had broken out. He was accepted by the RAF as aircrew and after brief training in Jamaica was shipped to New Orleans then onward to Canada.
He trained as a Navigator and after crew selection at Kinloss, training on Whitleys he was sent to Pocklington, Yorkshire.
He completed 33 operations - there is great detail about the operations.
After the war he transferred to Transport Command and flew Hastings and Comets around the world. He was a successful athlete for the RAF.
Included is a eulogy for John written by his nephew, Mark Johnson.
An appendix covers a colleague, John Ebanks who served as a bomb aimer at RAF Oakington. He undertook 50 operations.
Creator
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Mark Johnson
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2008
Format
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52 typewritten 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
MBlairJJ[Ser#-DoB]-160509-01
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Civilian
Royal Air Force
Royal Air Force. Bomber Command
Royal Air Force. Transport Command
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Great Britain
England--London
Jamaica--Pedro Plains
Cayman Islands
Jamaica--Ocho Rios
Jamaica--Kingston
Belize
United States
Louisiana--New Orleans
New York (State)--New York
Canada
New Brunswick--Moncton
Ontario--Ottawa
Québec--Montréal
Ontario--Toronto
Nova Scotia--Halifax
Iceland
England--Yorkshire
Sri Lanka
West Indies
Australia
New Zealand
Germany--Berlin
Germany--Cologne
Germany--Hamburg
Germany--Munich
Italy--Turin
Italy--Genoa
Italy--Milan
Germany--Mülheim an der Ruhr
Germany--Koblenz
Germany--Dortmund
Germany--Hannover
Germany--Magdeburg
British Columbia--Vancouver
England--Liverpool
France--Ardennes
Germany--Düsseldorf
Germany--Essen
Germany--Ludwigshafen am Rhein
Germany--Saarbrücken
Germany--Dülmen
Germany--Gelsenkirchen
Germany--Stuttgart
Germany--Wanne-Eickel
Germany--Goch
Germany--Bonn
Germany--Reichswald
Germany--Kleve (North Rhine-Westphalia)
Germany--Worms
Germany--Kamen
Germany--Chemnitz
Germany--Flensburg
Germany--Wuppertal
Germany--Bottrop
Germany--Witten
Italy--Naples
France--Marseille
Europe--English Channel Region
China--Hong Kong
Germany--Frankfurt am Main
Germany
Jamaica
Italy
France
Germany--Osnabrück
Jamaica--Saint Elizabeth
Germany--Nuremberg
Germany--Wangerooge Island
Louisiana
New York (State)
Ontario
Québec
New Brunswick
Nova Scotia
China
Germany--Ruhr (Region)
England--Lancashire
Jamaica--Saint Ann's Bay
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
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
David Bloomfield
102 Squadron
216 Squadron
4 Group
78 Squadron
African heritage
air gunner
aircrew
Anson
anti-aircraft fire
bomb aimer
bombing
bombing of Helgoland (18 April 1945)
Conspicuous Gallantry Medal
crewing up
demobilisation
Distinguished Flying Cross
Distinguished Flying Medal
entertainment
Gee
ground personnel
Halifax
Halifax Mk 3
Hitler, Adolf (1889-1945)
incendiary device
Ju 88
killed in action
Lancaster
medical officer
mid-air collision
military service conditions
mine laying
missing in action
Mosquito
navigator
Pathfinders
pilot
prisoner of war
radar
RAF Kinloss
RAF Oakington
RAF Pocklington
RAF Tangmere
searchlight
sport
training
Whitley
wireless operator
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/191/3585/MOHaraHF655736-161121-05.1.pdf
2cbd582158307d269573613dc6aeb0e3
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
O'Hara, Herbert
Paddy O'Hara
H F O'Hara
Description
An account of the resource
59 items. The collection concerns the wartime career of Flight Sergeant Herbert Frederick O'Hara (1917 – 1968, 655736, 195482 Royal Air Force). Herbert O'Hara served on 12 Squadron at RAF Wickenby between February and May 1944. His aircraft was shot down over France in May 1944 and he evaded until he was liberated in September 1944. He was then commissioned. The collection contains service records and two logbooks, notification of him missing as well as correspondence from and photographs of French people who helped him evade. In addition there is an account of travelling across the Atlantic for flying training in Florida as well as notes from his aircrew officers course at RAF Credenhill. Finally there are a number of target and reconnaissance photographs and six paintings.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Brian O'Hara and catalogued by Nigel Huckins and IBCC 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
2016-11-21
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
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O'Hara, HF
Access Rights
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Permission granted for commercial projects
Transcribed document
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
The Lambeth Exercise Book
3 pence
[page break]
[centred] S.S. Ranpura [/centred]
Wednesday 25-6-41
Iceland
Informed midday that was, with the [one indecipherable word] of Wilde’s[?] Own[?], on the posting list for tonight (116). There was great rejoicing in the camp at the thought of leaving Helgafell and its washing in a mountain stream, its mad CO and its’ Maconichies.
We went out to Rejavack[?] [Reykjavik] in army lorries with a rain storm beating down on us all the way. A tender took us out to a large one funneled[sic] boat that lay in the harbour, and boarded her about 8.30 p.m. After quite a decent meal and a stroll over the ship went to bed on a mattress instead of just plain boards or a devil made hammock like the Royal Ulsterman, or the tent boards at Winslow. It did not require any persuasion to sleep.
[page break]
Thursday
26-6-41
On High Seas.
The ship left at 03.30 hours so I am told, but we didn’t wake till we were well at sea. The sea was perfectly calm and we all settled down to enjoy our journey. Apart from a lonely cargo boat passed in the morning we never saw any other boats until we joined the convoy we were to escort at 1600 hrs.
Gained some information about our boat seems she had two other sister ships Rawlopindi[?] and Rajputna[?] both of which are now in Davy Jones locker.
Took a book out of the ships[sic] library – “the Three Englishmen” by G. Frankan[?], for there seems little to do except eat sleep and stroll around the decks. We had our usual boat drill in the morning.
[page break]
Friday
27-6-41
On High Seas.
The convoy still with us, but the weather very misty early morning. Skies cleared after 7 and the RAF attended morning prayers with the ships[sic] company.
It amused me the way we were supposed to be the escort vessel to the convoy, but from the way the convoy bunched around us they seemed to be escorting us.
In the evening attended a cinema show – a whole 5c. admission and saw “Stanley & Dr. Livingstone”. I hadn’t seen it before and quite enjoyed a talkie after an interval of nearly a month.
Took a book out of the library but it proved a bit too “Yankee” for my English mind.
[page break]
Saturday
28-6-41
Still on High Seas.
Sea slightly choppy but doesn’t effect[sic] our 16,000 tonnes like it would the 3,450[?] “Royal Ulsterman”.
Took out Hugh Walpoles[sic] “Man with Red Hair” – don’t like his style. Spent the evening in the recreation room trying hard to concentrate [deleted] one indecipherable word [/deleted] on Hugh W. in between intervals of listening to people vamping the piano & watching table tennis. Rather surprised the member of Sub lieuts who favour the men’s recreation room to their own mess, wonder if they like the atmosphere, or is it because they want to get away from our charming RAF officers who are accompanying us.
[page break]
Sunday
29-6-41
As today was Sunday we went to church service. The Padre was a lieut-commander who conducted the service as if he was checking the [deleted] ships company [/deleted] various dials of the engine room. The Commander (or [one indecipherable word] as the RN call them) read the Sermon.
Read Spanish Pistol by A.C. Macdonald and other short stories – quite good.
Still going a steady 9 knots – keeping pace with the slowest ship in the convoy – with luck should be in port on Thursday or Friday next week.
[page break]
Monday
30-6-41
Mid Atlantic
Actually had an inspection by the wing commander who brightly told me to sew up the split under the arm in my jacket when my [one indecipherable word] was way down in the luggage room.
A petty officer told us that we were now in the region of icebergs & may be lucky enough to see one – I hope so – but not too near.
Read A. G. Macdonalds [sic] England their England – easily one of the funniest books have read for quite a while.
[page break]
At this point got tired of waiting as nothing fresh seemed to happen so decided to make a brief précis of the journey and save putting dittos after each entry.
After this will write various impressions of things that struck me as might be of interest to the folks at home.
[page break]
From Greenock, Scotland to Hellgafell Iceland and thence to Halifax, Canada took just over a fortnight, but what a fortnight.
The short 3 day trip to Iceland in the 8500 ton Royal Ulsterman was hardly a comfortable one since 600 men were packed like the proverbial sardines in a can, amongst kit and luggage in the hold. Whenever any of the troops speak of the boat they always call it the “Altmark” after the famous German prison ship. Apart from an evening’s fatigue peeling “spuds” the voyage was free from toil or trouble and hence at moments became deadly monotonous.
If at Scarborough I had been told that I was shortly going to spend any of my fore[?] score and ten in Iceland
[page break]
I would have regarded the informer as a harmless lunatic, but he would have been truthful for we did. The transit camp was 12 miles from Reykjavik, the town of any size on the island. As we were only there for a few days, I will not digress too much about it, other than make a note so that I will never forget (as if I could) going down the hillside to wash in a mountain stream, or the C.O. who was crazy especially as regards liking to see washing hanging up, and the eternal tinned maconichies[?] The principal item of interest to me was the time I bathed in the hot springs at [deleted] All [deleted] Alafoss – without paying.
We left Iceland without regret in the auxilary[sic] cruiser H.M.S. Ranpura, late S.S. Ranpura a P&O [deleted] boat [/deleted] lines of the Indian Ocean. Her two sister ships
[page break]
also converted from luxury cruising liners to the “half caste” merchant cruisers [which] are now several fathoms deep in a watery and rather dilapidated condition.
Instead of a crazy C.O. & captain as we have been so used to we had a crazy commander who was always preceeeded[sic] by a sailor with a bugle & followed by his dog Dusty, with the master-at-arms bringing up the rear.
We were alleged escort to a convoy of 42 ships, but who in reality were escorting us. Conditions on board were quite good and we were left [deleted] abs [/deleted] absolutely alone to our own devices with no part of the ship barred[?] to us as on the “Royal Ulsterman” where we were treated like lepers.
[page break]
The sea was beautifully calm – as calm as the Serpentine and the weather also was superb. That fact coupled with the decent food [symbol] made the journey though long and drawnout [sic] quite enjoyable.
We disembarked Halifax N.S. about 1700[?] hours and left on a Canadian National train for Toronto.
It is little wonder that Novia [sic] Scotia was christened thus for from the countryside we passed through by train it reminded me very much of the Scottish countryside.
Canada is a grand country populated by some grand people and I am looking forward to seeing a lot of it and them.
[page break]
We arrived at Toronto and had breakfast – a really sumptuous affair – in the oak lounge of the Toronto Station, after that we reluctantly arose from the table and left for the Canadian [one indecipherable word] Pool. We were billeted in what was once was the principal building of the Canadian National Exhibition, and we actually slept where in more peaceful times was the sheep pen! After filling in numerous forms we left full of enthusiasm for a certain Lincoln Flying School in Lakeland Florida. What hopes we had, and we were as keen as a March wind and as fresh as as[sic] a mushroom at dawn.
Everything on the journey to Detroit seemed slow we rushed thro’ the town of London Stratford[?], but the stations wouldn’t pass quick enough we were Southward Bound at last. We crossed via the train ferry to Detroit from Windsor and now we were in the land of film stars and oil[?] kings, gansters[sic] and hamburgers! We stopped for a short while at some large cities but never had time to “look them over”. After what [inserted] I thought[?] [/inserted] was a lifetime [two deleted letters] actually two nights on the trains. I say trains because we had 3 [one indecipherable word] of railroads we arrived at 5.30 in the morning to a very quite[sic] town – Lakeland.
[page break]
Airmens Documents
Form 48 [one indecipherable word] History.
Envelope containing all particulars with label giving list of contents – Medical category, Inoculations, vaccinations, Dental Treatment, Spectacles & Surgical Appliances & Blood Group.
[page break]
The A.F. Act is divided into four parts
i Discipline
ii Enlistment
iii Billetting [sic] & [one indecipherable word] of [one indecipherable word]
iv General Provisions.
If can be proved that you allowed prisoner wilfully to escape can get penal servitude.
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
Herbert O'Hara diary and account of Atlantic crossing in 1941
Description
An account of the resource
Lambeth notebook with daily diary covering 25 to 30 June 1941 during journey from Iceland towards Canada on HMS Ranpura. Followed by account crossing from Greenock, Scotland to Iceland on ship Royal Ulsterman, stopover in Iceland, journey on HMS Ranpura to Halifax, Canada. Ends with journey via Toronto, Detroit to Lakeland.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Herbert O'Hara
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1941-06
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
Notebook with 15 handwritten paages
Language
A language of the resource
eng
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Text. Diary
Text. Memoir
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
MOHaraHF655736-161121-05
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 Navy
Royal Air Force
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Atlantic Ocean
Iceland
Canada
Nova Scotia--Halifax
Ontario--Toronto
United States
Florida--Lakeland
Great Britain
Scotland--Greenock
Nova Scotia
Ontario
Florida
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1941-06
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
David Bloomfield
military service conditions
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/243/3388/PCrooksGA1601.2.jpg
a537796b0c9cf00bcc65ddf2876f91c1
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/243/3388/ACrooksGA160817.2.mp3
b1ab1555c7b4f26e1c82a59d572148bc
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
Crooks, George A
George A Crooks
George Crooks
G A Crooks
G Crooks
Description
An account of the resource
One oral history interview with George Crooks (b. 1922).
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
2016-08-17
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
Crooks, GA
Transcribed audio recording
A resource consisting primarily of recorded human voice.
Transcription
Text transcribed from audio recording or document
JF: I’m John Fisher and it’s the 17th of August 2016. And I’m here to day with George Crooks, who was in 50 Squadron ground crew during the war and also with me is his daughter Janet and son-in-law Terry, and he’s had a rather rather lively war. Tell us about your lively war George. Now, you started off first as an apprentice electrician, didn’t you?
GC: That’s right, yeah, I was an apprentice electrician right from the age of fourteen until eighteen when I joined the RAF. I volunteered for that. They called me back twice, the factory did, called me back as a reserved occupation but I insisted so they let me go. I finished and went and joined up.
JF: And where did you go first?
GC: I went to Henlow, Henlow RAF College for electrics and, er, I served me course through there and was posted from there to 50 Squadron, yeah.
JF: And where were they based?
GC: 50 Squadron at that time was based at Swinderby and then, when Swinderby was improved by having new runways built, we moved to Skellingthorpe and that was our base then for quite a while but we was all in tents when we first moved there. They’d got no billets, it was all tents and it was in April. We had a standpipe outside the tents and everybody was outside washing in cold water at the standpipe and shaving, they had to shave every day with cold water, but ‒
JF: Which planes were you working on then?
GC: We was working on Hampdens, our first planes were Hampdens, and then we had the ‒, two or three Manchesters come in so we converted over to Manchesters, but before we got a squadron of Manchesters they were, er, were [pause] demolished, what would they say? Yeah, the Manchesters became unserviceable so we started to change over to Lancasters and then we ended up with a squadron of Lancasters.
JF: Which squadron was that? Do you know?
GC: 50 Squadron.
JF: Yeah.
GC: 50 Squadron, yeah.
JF: And they were part of 1 Group?
GC: 5 Group.
JF: 5 Group.
GC: Number 5 Group, yeah. Skellinghtorpe was only about two miles from Lincoln Cathedral. That used to be a landing point.
JF: Yeah. When you were doing Lancasters tell me about the time when you were doing rather long hours.
GC: Oh, yeah, yeah, that was when the first of the thousand bomber, thousand bomber raids was started and we was short-staffed and I was the only bomb armourer electrician there and I was doing ‒, I was on the airfield every bit of the day and I was only allowed two hours sleep per day and they used to bring my meals out on a truck and I used to have me dixie pan ready so when they come everything went into this dixie pan, mashed potatoes, and corned beef, or you might get a sausage and veg and then on top of that would go your sweet, your apple pie and custard [laughs]. All in one dixie pan, and ‒
JF: And did you carry on working while you were eating?
GC: Oh yeah, yeah, you had to carry on doing it. They allowed you five or ten minutes to get your meal down you.
JC: So what sort of work were you doing there?
GC: I was doing bomb racks, bomb racks, and incendiary canisters, repairing them all and making sure that they all worked electrically before they were put on the aircraft or before the bombs in the bomb dump, put the bombs on, and the racks on the bombs.
JF: One day you decided you’d had enough of two hours sleep a night, didn’t you?
GC: I reported sick. After nine weeks I reported sick. I could hardly stand on my legs and the MO said, ‘If you don’t get out of here and back to your work I’m going to put you on a charge of malingering’, [laughs]. So immediately I thought, ‘Well, you’re not going to defeat me’, so I reported back to the electrical officer and I demanded my course for the Group 1 Grade of Technicians so, surprisingly enough, within a week or so I was transferred to Nutsham [?] College and I did four or five months there at college and came out top of the class, and with the marks that I had they sent me to Bombing Development Unit at Feltwell in Norfolk and there I was doing experiments with the boffins from Farnborough, doing experiments with the window programme (which was dropping of silver paper to block out radar) and also we was experimenting with the blind bombing equipment radar over the Irish Sea and the Navy and they were dropping smoke bombs to test this equipment ‒
JF: Yeah, that must have been quite an exciting time?
GC: It was more exciting than ‒, and I got more pleasure out of that ‒
JF: You didn’t sign up did you for this sort of thing?
GC: No, no, not originally you know.
JF: You came there as an apprentice I think, didn’t you?
GC: Yeah, yeah, I got started off as an apprentice, and while I was there at Feltwell I got promoted to corporal, so I did well there but when the forces, or the army, moved out from Africa, after the desert war, they were going up through Italy, so our experiments and what not was becoming less needed at the time. So I was posted to West Germany [?] to pick up a desert uniform with little shorts and stockings, desert boots, we was trained down to Liverpool Docks and before I went up the gangway they called us out by name and there was about thirty of us and from there we went to West Germany [?] took back our desert equipment and picked up Icelandic equipment, fur coats, helmets, fur-lined boots and all the equipment that went with it.
JF: That was a shock.
GC: It was a shock, from desert equipment to Icelandic and we flew up to, went by train, to Alness in Scotland and we flew from there to Reykjavik in Iceland and that was in the August, no that was in the April, I believe it was in the April and I was brought back in the April the following year. While we was up there we used to service the Sunderland flying boats and all aircraft that was coming through from Canada, the Lancasters that were built in Canada, was coming in as a calling point, to refuel and then back up to Scotland or wherever they were going to be delivered. Mainly, mainly they was being flown by lady pilots, so we serviced those and sent them on their way, and also any other aircraft that came in. I remember the one time we had an emergency call, or an emergency landing by a Russian aircraft and by this Russian aircraft, there was a fellow waiting there to show me, I was called as being a senior electrician, to go and see what this problem was, so I took the little box with all the little tool kit, and testers in, a little wooden box with a handle on, and went out and this Russian, whether he was a pilot or one of the crew I don’t know ‘cause the conversation between him and me was non-existent virtually, he was gabbling on in Russian and I was gabbling on in English and neither one of us knew what each other was talking about, but by hand signals and pointing of hands and one thing or another he finally showed me that by putting this switch on the lights weren’t working on the instrument panel so I had to find the fuses and the connection for that, so I asked him by pointing at the sign which is international, the electric sign which is a flash of lightning in red paint, and I had to draw it out virtually and he immediately guessed what I was talking about. And he’d got a revolver in his hand while I was in there, he got a revolver in his hand and every time I went to touch something he’d tap the panel and say, ‘No, no’, waving his finger and we’d have a discussion again, him in Russian and me in English. It was like a comedy act and eventually I managed to find the fuse but my spares would not [emphasis] fit anything that the Russians had got so what I had to do was get me cigarette packet out, take a piece of silver, take a tiny strip of silver, and short out the fuse circuit and then ask him by pointing, ‘Switch the light on, see if its working’, and he immediately jumped up in the air ‘Good, good, good’ [laughs]. But the crew in the meantime they must have took off to the officers’ mess and they were being fed and whatever and I left them at that. I was anxious to get away. I’d never been so frightened in all my life. When he pointed this ruddy gun I was expecting the gun to go off any time, but he wouldn’t allow anybody else on the plane or around it, he shooed everybody away, he wouldn’t allow anybody on the plane, only me. So that was quite an experience.
JF: Well, did you spot anything on the plane that you didn’t think should be there?
GC: No, not really [laughs]. As I say, he took me straight to the cock pit like, and, demonstrated what was going on.
JF: How long did you stop at Reykjavik?
GC: I was there twelve months but apparently at that time they only allowed, the air force personnel, were only allowed to be there twelve months. ‘Cause they said, there was a threat of TB so if you’d been there twelve months they sent you back home again and they had a fresh batch of crews going there.
JF: So where did you go off to then?
GC: When I come back from there I was ‒, it was towards the end of the war then and I came back to Scotland and loaded off these Sunderlands and they sent me to Pershore, and I was at Pershore two or three months waiting discharge, so as soon as they offered me go find your civvy suit, I donned my civvy suit, threw uniform in the corner, I was glad to get off. I was in trouble several times ‘cause I didn’t claim my medals and at one stage when I was on a parade, at Swinderby, I was asked where me medals was, I said, ‘I wasn’t claiming any’, so I was in trouble again ‘cause if I didn’t get me medals put on for the next parade I’d be in trouble, I’d be on a charge again, but I never got round to doing me medals the whole time I came out, so I never got any medals at all while I was in the forces, but me family grew up and they said ‘You should have had your medals, you should have your medals’, so through the family, like, I claimed, I claimed me medals and I’ve worn them, like, every November and take me wreath to the cenotaph.
JF: Now, what was your wife’s name?
GC: Jean.
JF: And how did you come to meet?
GC: When I came out the forces I had a sum of seventy, with savings and whatever they had gave me, I had seventy pounds. That was a lot of money in them days so immediately I went out and bought a motorcycle. And I’d only been home a week and me mother during the war, she’d got two sons away in the Forces and a husband away in the Forces, so she was on her own all through the war, so it must have been terrible for her, like, during the air raids and such like, but I said to her, ‘I’m off to Blackpool, I’m going to have a holiday now’.
JF: And where were you living at that time?
GC: I was living at Princes End in Tipton.
JF: Which is in the West Midlands, yeah.
GC: Yeah, so I went off motorcycling. I hadn’t even got a licence then, we didn’t bother about licences in them days, and put a suitcase strapped to the back of the bike and went off, found a ‒
JC: Bed and breakfast.
GC: Bed and breakfast and I met ‒. I had a problem with a whitlow on my fingers on that there, a whitlow, and I went to the hospital, and they extracted it, the whitlow out of there, and patched it up but stupidly I went to Derby Baths for a swim so it was wet through, all the bandages, so I asked three Scots fellas was there (and I always got on with Scots fellas in the Forces), I asked them if they’d re-bandage it and they said, ‘No, there’s a nurse upstairs. Upstairs there’s three lassies upstairs and one of them’s a nurse. Now you go up there and ask one of them to redress it’. So I knocked on the door and this lassie from Scotland, she came to the door, and I told her what I was wanted, I said, ‘There’s a nurse here, isn’t there?’, and she says, ‘Yes but she’d not here at the moment’, so I said, ‘Well, will you redress my finger?’ She says, ‘Oh no, I certainly won’t’, she says. So I asked her three times about something or other, I don’t know whether ‒. Oh, ‘When will the nurse be back’, ‘I don’t know’, and, ‘Do you think she’ll be back tonight’, ‘I don’t know’. So I thought ‘I’ve had enough of this. I think I’m dead’ ‒. But next day we met up, and there were all the lads and that there round the back looking at me motorbike and she came down and started talking about one thing or another, so I made a date then and we went off to the funfair. I went to the hotel, a hotel down on the front and we had a few drinks and we went to the funfair and then later we went to the ballroom, you know, the Tower Ballroom, and dancing and what not, that’s how we got together. We started writing to one another, yeah. So, then after writing I used to go up there at weekends like and met, met up with her.
JF: Good, that was nice.
GC: So we had sixty-five years together. She’s up there look, wee Scotch lassie.
JF: That’s lovely yeah.
GC: I’ve got family now, yeah, all spread out.
JF: Your father also had a heavy time, didn’t he?
GC: Oh yes.
JF: Tell us a bit about him.
GC: Yeah, as I say, he was brought up in Mansfield, Nottingham. Well, Mansfield, all around Mansfield there were five, five pits and they were all miners. The only job you could find in Mansfield was mining and I think somehow he was claustrophobic and he was never going to go down the mine. All his relations and what not went down the mines but he was not going to go down no mine and he did a bit of farm work and when he was of age he joined up. He wasn’t too keen on the farming and when the war broke out he joined up. Then he was with the Sherwood Foresters and they sent him straight over to the Somme and he went all through the Somme, like, but he was wounded at the Somme three times and they sent him home each time and I think he met me mum, me mother like during that period. Oh, as I say, they sent him back and when he’d finished the army, he said when the war was finished he said, ’Well, the army has broken me, took everything I’ve had virtually so they can replace me’, so instead of coming back into Civvy Street he joined up into the regular army for twenty one years. He had to sign on for twenty one years, and no alternative, twenty one years or no, so he signed up but he says, ‘I’m not staying with the Sherwood Foresters. I’m not going to be a ground slug’, he says, ’I’m going with the horses’. ‘Cause he’d been on the farms, like, so he took a fancy to the horses. So he joined the Lancers, so he changed regiments so he was with the Lancers, but he went from there, while he was with the Lancers, he went to India. He married me mother before he went and they had two years in India, he was on the Kaiber Pass [laughs] fighting the fuzzywuzzies [?] or whatever they called them and they came back to Teignmouth Barracks and at Teignmouth Barracks he was there for two or three years and we came along, me son, I came first, and then me brother, he was born in Teignmouth Barracks, but he was only two and I was four and we was sent to Egypt and so we were out in Egypt for eight years.
JF: What year would that be George?
GC: 1926 to 1934 [coughs]. Pardon me.
JF: Don’t worry.
GC: I’m talking too much [laughs]. Can you switch it off for a minute? Eight years out there and came back to Teignmouth Barracks and ‒, oh then he was disbanded then. He finished his service in 1936, in 1936 they found him a job here in Tipton as a works policeman, so while he was here they formed a territorial army unit at the works and then in 1939 he was called up and he served another three years in the Second World War but because he was too old to be sent overseas he had to join the anti-aircraft guns, so he was on anti-aircraft guns all during the war, and they decided he was too old even for that and after three years they discharged him.
JF: And how old was he then?
GC: Oh God, how old would he be then? He’d be well in his sixties, about sixty-five to seventy.
TC: 1889 he was born.
GC: In 1889 he was born.
JF: So, your father and you had really interesting wars.
GC: And me brother, he ‒, I think he volunteered, but he ended up in the Royal Corps of Signals and when the ‒, ‘cause that was later on during the war, but he was in the D-Day landings and he was a despatch rider.
JF: Yeah?
GC: And he used to, like, travel to the front, backwards and forwards, front and back, like, with messages and such like, and he said he was a good target for the snipers, but he travelled all through France, Belgium, Holland, into Germany and he went right the way through to Berlin. So he had a pretty stiff life, yeah.
JF: George, thank you very much. You’ve been most interesting and as they say you had a lively war.
GC: [Laughs] Yeah, yeah. Oh in Iceland, that was terrible. You used to have the aircraft coming through, get the Lancasters and what not coming through, and sometimes you’d have to get everybody to open up the engine. I mean, they used to have to anchor the aircraft stair with wire hoses, put the wings into concrete loopholes in the concrete, they used to tie them down because when the blizzards come it would blow them off the island and into the fjord at the bottom of Sidwell [?]. And American aircraft went down there, it had blew the aircraft off the fjord and it blew it down into the fjord so ‒, but if you wanted to work on an aircraft eight of you used to get together, used to have the fitters and whoever who was available like, the electricians, we had to put [unclear] up with a ladder up one side and then a platform and then a ladder down the other side. You’d all be wearing all fur-lined clothes, five pairs of gloves and what not, your big boots, and you’d trudge through the snow onto the platform and then one behind the other you’d have to tie white ribbon, white tapes, white tapes we used to have round our necks and on the end of each tape you had your tools tied and then you went up the ladder one behind the other eight of yer, one behind the other ‘til you got to the platform and then you’d wip one of these gloves off, or maybe you’d wip two off but you’d wip these gloves off ‘til you were only left with your silk gloves, the silk gloves on and then you’d start undoing the cowlings, one at a time, and you’d go round and round in a circle ‘til eventually you’d got all the cowlings off and then you’d have to take the generator off so you’d have to go round again, and if it was a fellow who didn’t understand what we were working on you had to explain to him, ‘You got to get them nuts off there, you got to get them things off there, don’t do that one, do the other one first’, so you’d go round and round in a circle until eventually you got the equipment off the engine [laughs], mind you’d have to put your gloves back on again ‒.
JF: How cold was it?
GC: Oh, bitterly cold, yeah, and we used to have a little stove, it was just Nissen huts we had out there and they were lined with plaster board, but in the middle of this there were twelve of us in a Nissen hut and in the middle of the Nissen hut there was this Reece [?] coal stove and it was only that high and about twelve inches round and the chimney up the middle, and we used to stoke it up with coal, and at night time there’d be twelve of yer sitting round this coal fire trying to get warm [laughs] and then in the morning when you managed to get out of bed, you had no end of blankets and whatnot, get out of bed and get dressed and you, we had to go to the washhouse so the first one out the door used to open the door gingerly, but as soon as he opened the door down came a great bulk of snow right down on to yer. If you were unlucky you went out like it’d probably drop on top on yer, and then down the centre between the huts they used to have spikes all the way down to your quarters, the canteen and the cookhouse and whatnot, the officers at the bottom, they had this rope all on steel pickets and you had to go out the hut and you got your goggles on and everything and you grabbed the rope, and some days ‘cause of the snow and the blizzard you had to follow this rope up until you got to the cookhouse, dining hall, yeah.
JF: How did the planes manage to land and take off?
GC: Well, they didn’t actually, when the blizzard was blowing like, and generally, I don’t know why, but every Tuesday and every Thursday you seem to have the blizzard blow. It was like clockwork and the blizzards used to come up and you was virtually stuck but all the Sunderland flying boats they weren’t allowed. As soon as the seas started to freeze up, they sent them back home, but then there was times come when even the ships couldn’t get in ‘cause the sea had frozen up so we had to rely on the Americans for our food virtually. If it hadn’t been for the Americans at the next station up [unclear] but they were pretty good. They used to send over tubs of ice cream which we’d never even seen but their idea was to build up the temperature inside your body the same as what’s outside so if you got ice cream in your body, like, it brought your temperature down in your body and you didn’t feel the outside temperature so much.
JF: Well I haven’t heard that one before George.
GC: Well, it’s the same in India though, isn’t it? If you’re out in India they feed you with curries and all hot spices and what not, don’t they? So, it’s just to even the temperature in your body, your body temperature up with the outside.
JF: George, thank you very much. You’ve been really interesting. Thank you.
GC: You’ll never get all that down on paper [laughs].
JF: Thanks a lot. Thank you.
GC: Oh yes ‒
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/.
Identifier
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ACrooksGA160817
PCrooksGA1601
Title
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Interview with George Crooks
Rights
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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.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Type
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Sound
Language
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eng
Format
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00:34:05 audio recording
Conforms To
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Pending review
Creator
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John Fisher
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-08-17
Description
An account of the resource
George Crooks was an apprentice electrician before volunteering for the Royal Air Force at the age of eighteen. After his training he served as an armourer with 50 Squadron at RAF Swinderby and later RAF Skellingthorpe. He later worked experimenting with blind bombing and Window. Upon leaving the Royal Air Force he had a holiday in Blackpool where he met his future wife.
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.
Great Britain
Iceland
England--Lincolnshire
England--Norfolk
Iceland--Reykjavík
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Christine Kavanagh
5 Group
50 Squadron
ground crew
ground personnel
Hampden
Lancaster
Manchester
medical officer
military living conditions
military service conditions
RAF Feltwell
RAF Skellingthorpe
RAF Swinderby
Sunderland
Window
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/161/2030/PCushwayAW16010007.2.jpg
fdf59bdd88d6f0195671897c399431c4
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
Cushway, Arthur. Album
Arthur Cushway's photograph album
Description
An account of the resource
28 items. A photograph album with multiple pages. It contains pictures taken during Arthur Cushway's aircrew training in Great Britain and in Canada. Subjects include airmen and aircraft and sightseeing in Great Britain and North America, including Niagara Falls, Ontario, New York and Reykjavik in Iceland.
The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Rosemary Lester and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.
Publisher
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IBCC Digital Archive
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-07-04
Rights
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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
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PCushwayAW1601
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
Iceland
Description
An account of the resource
Three photographs taken from a scrapbook. The first is six men loading coal into a lorry at Reykjavik. Behind are ship's masts. Captioned 'Coal heaving, Rejkvik August 1941.' The second is a hill covered in fog, captioned 'Coastal Fog. Hetgafels Aug. 1941'. The third is of two airmen and two US Marines talking in a street. One marine is leaning against a jeep. Captioned 'Swopping ideas with Uncle Sam's Marines Rejkavik Aug. 1941.'.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1941-08
Format
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Three b/w photographs on an album page
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PCushwayAW16010007
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. Training Command
United States Army
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
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.
1941-08
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/156/2016/PCushwayAW16080003.2.jpg
f15d2478b785fc5b4f5470692c40ebef
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
Cushway, Arthur
A W Cushway
Description
An account of the resource
55 items. This collection concerns Sergeant Arthur William Cushway (1913 - 1942, 1285306 Royal Air Force). Arthur Cushway was a wireless operator / air gunner and was killed when his Stirling from RAF Waterbeach failed to return from an operation to Hamburg. The collection contains a photograph album, his service record and 52 photographs. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Rosemary Lester and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.<br /><br />Additional information on Arthur Cushway is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/206596/">IBCC Losses Database</a>.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-07-04
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. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Cushway, AW
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Access Rights
Information about who can access the resource or an indication of its security status. Access Rights may include information regarding access or restrictions based on privacy, security, or other policies.
Permission granted for commercial projects
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
Six men loading coal
Description
An account of the resource
Six men beside a large mound of coal are loading coal into the back of a lorry. Behind them can be seen ship's masts.
Additional information about this item has been kindly provided by the donor.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1941-08
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
One b/w photograph
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PCushwayAW16080003
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
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
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.
1941-08
Is Part Of
A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included.
Cushway, Arthur. Folder PCushwayAW1608
-
https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/files/original/156/2015/PCushwayAW16080002.2.jpg
8d06eda69217cfd3f3d1f6c7b805a6cc
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
Cushway, Arthur
A W Cushway
Description
An account of the resource
55 items. This collection concerns Sergeant Arthur William Cushway (1913 - 1942, 1285306 Royal Air Force). Arthur Cushway was a wireless operator / air gunner and was killed when his Stirling from RAF Waterbeach failed to return from an operation to Hamburg. The collection contains a photograph album, his service record and 52 photographs. <br /><br />The collection has been loaned to the IBCC Digital Archive for digitisation by Rosemary Lester and catalogued by Nigel Huckins.<br /><br />Additional information on Arthur Cushway is available via the <a href="https://internationalbcc.co.uk/losses/206596/">IBCC Losses Database</a>.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-07-04
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. Some items have not been published in order to protect the privacy of third parties, to comply with intellectual property regulations, or have been assessed as medium or low priority according to the IBCC Digital Archive collection policy and will therefore be published at a later stage. For more information, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/ and https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/legal, https://ibccdigitalarchive.lincoln.ac.uk/omeka/collection-policy.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Cushway, AW
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
IBCC Digital Archive
Access Rights
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Permission granted for commercial projects
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
Seven men loading coal
Description
An account of the resource
A group of seven men loading coal into the back of a lorry.
Additional information about this item has been kindly provided by the donor.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1941-08
Format
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One b/w photograph
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
PCushwayAW16080002
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
Spatial Coverage
Spatial characteristics of the resource.
Iceland
Iceland--Reykjavík
Temporal Coverage
Temporal characteristics of the resource.
1941-08
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Photograph
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.
Is Part Of
A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included.
Cushway, Arthur. Folder PCushwayAW1608